


The Crab with the Mechanical Claws

by WinryWeiss



Series: Steam and Courage [1]
Category: Adventures of Tintin (2011), Tintin (Comics), Tintin - All Media Types
Genre: (Ask the Above for help and the Author will deliver), (Practically Every Story I've ever written has some sort of Sherlock Holmes Innuendo), A walking Trouble Magnet, Accents, Action/Adventure, Adventure, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Automaton Animal, Bad Puns, Bickering, Bickering like a married couple, Breaking and Entering, Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic (of a sort), Deadly Game of Tag, Discoveries, Escape, Finally finished!, Friendly banter, Friendship, Gen, Heroes in Mortal Peril, Informal English, Interpol - Freeform, Journalism, Kidnapping, Mechanical Animal, Mentions of Slavery, Mentions of War, Minor Injuries, Minor Meta Questioning, Moral Dilemmas, Mystery, Nightmares, PTSD, Partners in Crime, Partners in Crime (or more likely Partners in Adventure), Philosophy, Police investigation, Possible Anachronism Alert, Post-War, Riddles, Sabotage, Scheming, Scottish Brogue (Yay! I messed it up!), Self-Indulgent, Sherlock Holmes Innuendos, Smuggling, Solving a riddle, Steampunk, That's not how journalism works Tintin!, Traps, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, War Devastation, War Trauma, Well that escalated quickly, Worldbuilding, a night for felony, deduction leaps, depressed thoughts, pendulum science, philosophy debate, puns and wordplays, sentient machines, slow mystery unravelling, teaming up, that’s rather questionable set of skills you have Tintin, the amount of research I’ve done for this fic is ridiculous, they are both equally crazy and perfect for each other, travelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:55:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 27,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21721828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinryWeiss/pseuds/WinryWeiss
Summary: "The Adventures of Tintin" steampunk reimagining.When a famous engineer goes missing, a former navy captain stumbles upon a can full of opium and a young freelance journalist receives a mysterious parcel, an adventure like no other starts to unwind.
Relationships: Archibald Haddock & Tintin, Milou | Snowy & Tintin
Series: Steam and Courage [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1568788
Comments: 24
Kudos: 55





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> Allow me to ramble a bit.
> 
> This story holds quite a special place in my heart.  
> The version presented here is actually a thorough rewrite of an old fanfiction of mine. Which is still floating around the net, as I'm simply unable to delete it. You can find it, if you wish, but kindly do so at your own risk, as it belongs amongst the first things I've written in a foreign language, and my grasp of storytelling in English was atrocious, back then. Also, the original version of this story is slash, and very badly written on top of everything.
> 
> You _might_ interpret the relationship between Tintin and Captain Haddock as pre-slash attraction, if that's what floats your boat. I've intentionally written it as strong yet vague bond, aiming for the same way it always seemed for me in the original comics.

Towards the close of the Industrial Revolution, in the middle of the 19th century, Baxter Industries – one of many arising companies of idealistic and inventive young men – came up with an epoch-making technology which soon spread all around the world, changing it entirely. Their steam-powered engines were basis of modern boats, locomotives, airships and later even self-propelling vehicles, which replaced horse-drawn carriages.

Four decades later, an independent scientist named Frank Wolff created the first automaton animal, famous Dampf-Hund-Eins using the very same technology. He had found a way, albeit expensive one, how to minimize all components and reduce the dangerous potential of high-pressure boilers.

Alas! Future was not as bright as those idealistic machinists wanted it to be.

For in the second decade of 20th century, a war, now known as The Great Steam War, broke out, nearly stopping all developments, nearly wiping humankind from very existence, and forever changing the map of the world. Old countries were destroyed underneath heavy steam-powered combat vehicles, new countries were born from fire of the war, frontiers were pushed forwards and backwards till no one knew nor cared where they lay, unlikely alliances were established, some shattered quickly, some withstood, and fear and terror was firmly seeded into hearts of all people.

And yet, like a storm abating, the war ended and the world was slowly rebuilt, brick by brick, engine by engine.

So began a brand-new age, an age of adventure, built on steam and courage.


	2. Out of Options

#### 30th of June 1932, Rotterdam, Republiek der Nederlanden

Cogwheels rotated with barely audible whirling, a hum that most people now consider as natural as silence. The mechanism sprung to life. Pendulum bob swung, latch opened and a brass cuckoo lunged on its spring to observe own domain, to announce the end of the shift.

The workroom was in a mess beyond normal. The usual working disorder was enhanced threefold, tools and partially completed gadgets lying haphazardly on every thinkable surface, covered by a blanket of papers, scraps with thickly written notes and calculations, diagrams of machines, charts and even old train-tickets.

Either a bomb or a sudden burst of inspiration must go off in there. 

The southernmost wall consisted entirely of enormous windows, glass panes stretching from ceiling to floor, slightly smeared by dust and grime from ever-present steam, but nevertheless offering a breathtaking view – mazelike yards, workshops and buildings forming the famous Tournesol Factory extending up to a thick, bricked wall. Beyond the wall, winding streets of Rotterdam’s industrial district run away to the distance, all the way to what was left of the historical centre of the city. 

The sole occupant of that workroom checked his own pocket watch to see whether they went in accordance with the factory clock, a habit formed decades ago and carved in stone during the years working as chief-engineer. In appearance, he was an average man, already in his forties, the top of his head completely hairless now, but below the bald spot thickly curled dark hair still prominent, and the years when he didn’t need glasses not only for reading long gone. Majority of people who met him in factory corridors or on the streets wouldn’t even consider him worth a second glance.

And yet, second glance is exactly what he gave to two items located at the very top of the pile of litter and gears on his desk. An oblong copper box with a stylised engraving of a sunflower on its lid laid on a yellowed, nearly a year old newspapers. _Le Vingtième Siècle_ stated the title, and below it, a sensational headline stood out: _Our reporter forestalled a coup d'état! The tension between Syldavia and Borduria once again threatened the peace of the world._ The actual text of that article was concealed beneath the copper box, but the chief-engineer knew it by heart already. He reread it over and over again, several times just today, whenever plan after plan he so painstakingly elaborated failed just in the very last moment.

He was aware that the story was heavily exaggerated, painfully aware that every newspaper twisted the facts as they found useful. But in this case, he had it confirmed from a more reliable source than the underpaid scribblers of _Le Vingtième Siècle_. He had been right next to the source, as they say. 

He could only hope that that young man truly is the force to be reckoned with that everyone considers him to be.

Because, you see, Professor Cuthbert Calculus, the chief-engineer of Tournesol Factory, ran out of all but one option.


	3. Whiskey and Opium

#### 1st of July 1932, Karaboudjan, English territorial waters

Rumbling of powerful engines reverberated through the ship. The crew didn’t mind them the slightest, it was a noise as constant as the blowing of sea-breeze. It was the base of every modern sea-shanty, it was that tune whistled by drunken sailors early in the morning when they stumbled on unsure feet back to what they presumed was their ship, it was that thunder-like hum which carries over the water for miles and miles when weather is clear, that thunder-like hum which can easily overpower the fiercest of storms when on full throttle.

It was the sound of a beating heart of a ship.

Archibald Haddock, retired officer of The Royal Army of The United Kingdom of Great Britain, Ireland and eastern coasts of Europe, currently captain of independent cargo steamboat aptly named Karaboudjan, a drunken mismatch of wrongly heard Armenian and Turkish words for black soul, was in trouble. 

Trouble with big T.

He ran out of whiskey.

It was somewhat after noon, not exactly a time to be dead-drunk, as part of his brain informed him. But Captain Haddock had been a master of ignoring own subconscious mind for, oh, well over sixteen years. It was better that way, he often lied to himself, it was better that way ‘cause that part of his mind still provided him with memories of the War, as detailed as if they happened yesterday and not more than a decade ago.

And since Haddock didn’t want that blackness of his soul to surface and seize reigns, he embarked on a quest for new whiskey.

The ship swung and swayed, but Captain had the same swing and sway in his steps. They moved in unison. He was one with his ship, made of steel and tar, labour and sweat, as free and unrestrained as a fish, allowed to go wherever they pleased, as long as they stayed in the water. And those unimportant little details, like deliveries to make or the fact, that Archibald cannot exactly remember where they were heading right now, those didn’t matter. 

After all, Allan, his first mate, had the running of Karaboudjan firmly in hand.

Captain avoided busy main corridors, opting instead for narrow maintenance shafts where steep stairs were replaced by ladders. For, you see, Captain Haddock was drunk, but not yet drunk enough to risk the steps, which, despite being an inanimate object, had clearly some sort of aversion against him, given all the times he tumbled down from them and nearly broke his neck. 

Slowly but stubbornly he found his way into cargo hold 13, where crates full of famous Loch Lomond whiskey were located. There is a certain small percentage of fragile or quickly perishable goods that are expected to be lost along the way, so no-one would make a fuss over a missing bottle. 

Or several. 

Captain bent down to retrieve a bottle from an already opened crate.

And then, his beloved ship betrayed him.

Karaboudjan suddenly tilted, Archibald Haddock was knocked off his feet towards a wall. He inadvertently smacked several welded bolts, the resulting bang loudly resonating through a hollow space behind and through his bones, something clicked and whirled underneath his palm and a whole panel of the wall opened.

Confused, Captain Haddock peeked into that mysterious space. 

With barely few inches to spare, wedged into that small hollow were crates upon crates, a stylised painting of a red crab with raised pincers perched above carefully branded trade sign that read DEBRETT. 

Odd.

Whiskey forgotten, Captain fetched a crowbar that still laid next to Loch Lomond crate and, ignoring his common sense, as he was by now used to do, pried out a lid of the nearest crate. Cans of crab meat, simple yellow label with the same red crab as on the crate, a combination rather painful for the eyes, as if someone colour-blind or downright vengeful produced this cartoonish palette, were arranged inside, lined up like soldiers awaiting orders. 

How very _odd_.

Those confounding cans were supposed to be in a completely different hold, on a different deck no less, and, although Captain cannot be sure, he didn’t think they delivered to anyone called Debrett. 

Besides, why would those cans have to be hidden?

Why would there even _be_ a hidden room in his ship?

With a foreboding sense of wrongness, Archibald Haddock sat himself down on another crate and using the crowbar as an impromptu can-opener, miraculously managing not to cut off own fingers, pried the can open.

And stared.

Simply stared, his mind clearly knowing what he was looking at, but at the same time refusing to acknowledge it.

Alas, it could not be mistaken.

“ _Blistering …_ ” Captain muttered, suddenly feeling very sober.

“Aaah, well,” sounded suddenly. Allan Thompson, first mate aboard Karaboudjan, was leaning in the secret doorframe, as if there wasn’t a single problem in the world.

As if the cargo wasn’t full of opium.

“I guess, you were s’pposed to find out sooner or later, _Captain_ ,” Allan smirked at him, a mirthless grin that did not reach his eyes.

“Allan …” Archibald clutched the can, crumpling it in his palm.

“Yeah, _Captain_?” His treacherous first mate asked. Behind him machinist Ivan and Allan’s ever-present lackey Tom were peering at their unfortunate captain, Tom’s dull expression replaced by a cruel sneer, gun in his hands aimed at the former soldier.

“How long?” Archibald allowed the can to slip from his surprisingly calm hand. It clanked loudly on the steel floor, a sound not unlike a gunshot. He raised his hands and rose slowly to face the man he trusted. “How long have yer been abusing mae good name and mae ship to smuggle drugs?” His voice was as firm as his hands, didn’t waver nor rose to a pitch, unlike his heartbeat which picked a frantic pace upon noticing the gun.

“Nearly from the start, _Captain_ ,” admitted Allan cheerfully. “Oooh, don’t gimme me that look, you simply can’t blame me, it was _sooo_ easy, since you were blind drunk practically all the time.”

“Yer treacherous son-of-a-sea-cucumber!” Captain Haddock unthinkingly took a step forward, fury in his eyes, only to stumble over that wretched can. His legs slid wide, a nearly perfect split, his body toppled down, and as he fell, he banged his head on the opened crate, knocking himself unconscious.

Tom snorted incredulously. “’Twas for real?” 

Ivan sniggered. “So vhat ve do vith him? Feed fish?” his Slavonic accent always forcing him to speak slowly, as if he pondered over what to say, just to not be misunderstood.

“Hmmm, no. _Nooo_ ,” smirked Allan cruelly. “Lock him in hold 24. There’s gonna be slave market soon at Khemed.”


	4. Labrador Road Irregulars

#### 9th of July 1932, Brussels, Republiek der Nederlanden

Dusk was falling over the city of Brussels. Lamps on thoroughfares were already lit, sharp shrieks of factory sirens announced the end of day-shift above acrid steam of industrial district and most people were heading home.

Steady puffing of steam-engines overpowered all other sounds on busy main streets. The tram came to a stop with a jolt and a young man in a yellow polo shirt and brown linen plus-fours, a well-worn leather messenger bag slung over one shoulder, hopped out, followed by an automaton dog of tarnished copper.

Said man, who goes under the name of Tintin, checked his wristwatch and unthinkingly smoothed a quiff of his ginger hair that despite all his efforts stubbornly stood out like a lighthouse in a storm.

Due to his petite figure and smooth face he was often confused with a mere delivery boy, a fact that he took advantage of more than once during his unexpectedly dangerous work at reportages for _Le Vingtième Siècle_ , one of the biggest newspapers in Europe. 

“Yet another day spent in a futile hunt for clues, eh, Milou?” he complained to his mechanical canine companion.

The automaton dog tilted his head and emitted a thin puff of steam in his unique imitation of friendly yap, his highly polished ears reflecting light due to that movement.

Tintin smiled at him tiredly.

Together, they headed for their home, dodging passers-by.

A small boy, roughly at the age of seven, in patched-up waistcoat over at least size too big shirt with rolled-up sleeves and way too short trousers which barely reached his mid-calf, sneaked behind the reporter.

Milou noticed him and stopped, which caused Tintin to stop as well. One tumble over his copper canine companion was one too many in Tintin’s opinion. He already seized such an opportunity and was in no need to repeat it ever in his life.

The furtive boy passed them, his fingers as light as wind.

“Wiggins!” the ginger reporter smacked his lips, but then laughed loudly as he lunged after the boy, grabbing him by arm. “Are you trying to rob me _again_?”

“Merely exercising your reflexes, Tintin,” shrugged the boy his shoulders.

“So I see.” The ginger took back his wallet, which miraculously ended in Wiggins’ pocket, and tapped the boy gently on the forehead with it. “Thank you for your concern. So, did you find anything?”

Wiggins pouted. “Nnnope,” he admitted, clearly annoyed. “That man disappeared like steam above the engine.”

“Crumbs.” Tintin tiredly pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ll have to employ Thompson and Thomson after all.”

“Those two butter-fingers?” Wiggins looked at Tintin, disbelief evident on his face. 

Milou also looked at Tintin, releasing a thin puff of steam from his muzzle, which rendered to him a rather confused expression.

“They are klutz,” said Wiggins with unshakeable certainty.

“ _Klutzes_ is the plural,” corrected him Tintin matter-of-factly. “And, well …”

“ _They aaareee!_ ” proclaimed the boy vehemently.

“… it could not be denied that they are certainly a little clumsy …”

Wiggins snorted.

“… but they are the Interpol finest,” finished Tintin nevertheless.

“Well, we are all screwed then,” stated the young boy.

“ _Wiggins_ ,” Tintin bestowed him with a reproving look usually reserved for Milou. “Don’t be mean.”

“You also want me to tell the truth. Pick your choice, I cannot do both in this case.”

Tintin sighed. “You are getting cheekier with each passing day.”

“Thank you, govn’r,” Wiggins grinned at him and added a wink for good measure. “I aim to please.”

Tintin smiled despite himself. He checked the contents of his wallet and then took out a banknote he will be sorely lacking by the end of the week, giving it to his young informant. “Here you go. Don’t forget to share with others. And keep looking.”

Wiggins whistled upon the sight of the banknote. “ _Generous_. He won’t slip from us this time, I promise.” Wiggins mock-saluted him and with the same gesture he managed to beckon to a pair of two boys standing nearby. They took off down the street. “We’re gonna make a raid to that Syldavian patisserie!” heard Tintin their enthusiastic exclamation as they disappeared from his sight.”

The ginger reporter laughed and kneaded his nape. He was dead tired. He wondered how early is too early to go to bed.

He whistled for Milou, making sure that his automaton, prone to wander around when unattended, trotted next to him as they continued their journey for another few minutes. 

This district of Brussels, his neighbourhood, was lively and almost untouched by mechanization. Milou, as every automaton, still caused quite a sensation out there. Labrador Road consisted of blocks of houses that somehow miraculously survived the war-destruction without the slightest damage. Green door with a brass plate that proudly showed number 26 led into a small, two-storey building. 

Tintin let Milou in the entrance hall, which stays cold even during the worst of summer heat, closing the door behind them with a well-practised shove of the leg. He emptied his mailbox overflowing with letters, stuffing them haphazardly into his bag to sort out later, and by habit knocked on doors of his landlady dwelling to let her know he had returned.

She opened within seconds, greyish apron over her floral dress and a smudge of flour on her left cheek, from when she tried to tame her hair back to that not-so-tight bun from which they keep escaping during baking. “Oh, Tintin!” a pleasant smile lit her face. “Back already? I’m in the middle of preparing dinner. Would you like some?”

“No, thank you, Mrs. Finch, I’ve already eaten.”

“Did you?” she asked in that slightly mistrustful tone of a mother who simply never came to believe that her child could actually take care of himself. “Oh, a parcel came for you,” she suddenly remembered, leaning down to the reporter, “restricted delivery.”

“Hn?” Tintin checked his wristwatch. A visit to the postal office could last hours and he was too tired to deal with some prim white-collar yet again today. “Well, I’ll guess I’ll pick it first thing tomorrow. Did the postman leave a notification?”

“Even better,” smiled Mrs. Finch conspiratorially and disappeared into her flat. She returned almost immediately with a big parcel in her arms. “It was young Gussie, so he had no problem leaving it with me. Here,” she handed it to the reporter. The package was lighter than he expected. “It looks important. But young man, remember, I’m your …”

“… landlady, not my housekeeper,” Tintin finished her declaration with practised ease, giving his most charming smile. “I know, madam. I’m much obliged.”

“You’re welcome, mister reporter. And kindly announce the explosion beforehand, so I can save my glassware.”

“Well, I’ve never …”

“Blown up the flat? Oh, don’t worry, it will come one day, I’m sure.” There was no real venom in those words, she was merely voicing her beliefs. “The next time I’ll have to scrub blood from this stone floor, I’ll add it to your lease. “

“Of course, Mrs. Finch.”

“I’m serious, young man.”

“Of course, Mrs. Finch. I swear I don’t do it on purpose. It just happens.”

She put on a stern look, but a smile had been tugging on the corner of her lips. “ _Just happens_ , but on a regular basis.”

“Not quite _regular_ yet,” defended Tintin himself, but he too felt an urge to grin back at her.

“Not yet,” she pronounced knowingly. Then she released him with a wave of hand. “The dinner will be ready in an hour.”

“But …”

“No buts, young man, you do not eat enough. Look at your, all skin and bones, I ought to fatten you up before you rush away in chase of yet another adventure.”

Tintin knew by experience that there was no point in arguing with his landlady on certain subjects, this being one of them, so he politely thanked her and mounted the stairs to his own flat, Milou at his heels. Closing the door behind them he immediately headed to his study, placing the mysterious parcel next to an elderly typewriter on his desk, his tiredness lessened by his curiosity, but not completely gone.

The ginger reporter examined the parcel all around, even put his ear on it to listen for suspicious ticking, but no clues of its content or sender could be found. So he proceeded to carefully unwrap the packet.

Hidden in plain brown paper was another parcel wrapped in slightly crumpled and greased millimetre paper with a carefully folded list on top.

Tintin recognised the thin, decorative writing from the note by first glance. “It’s from professor Alembick, do you remember him, Milou?”

The automaton dog tilted his head, puffing off wisps of steam.

“Yes, you do, don’t pretend you’ve forgotten,” the ginger reporter bent down and polished Milou’s ear. He seated himself and unfolded the list. “Let’s see what he has to say.”

> _Tintin,  
>  I hope you are well.  
>  I’m sending this on behalf of my friend, who wishes for you to look after it for a while. He wonders whether you would be able to solve its mystery.  
>  As fate would have it, I had to leave for Sigillography conference in Prague, so I cannot deliver it to you in person. Hopefully, we will meet again soon. I had acquired several seal and signet-rings since our adventure in Syldavia that you simply must see.  
>  Yours truly  
>  Hector Alembick._

Tintin cast a contemplative look at the second parcel, his curiosity piqued. 

His early night was going to be postponed.


	5. A Haddock out of Water

#### 9th of July 1932, Karaboudjan, Port of Brussels

Archibald Haddock, retired officer of The Royal Army of The United Kingdom of Great Britain, Ireland and eastern coasts of Europe, currently locked as a prisoner in his own ship, was in trouble. 

And this time, to his own unending amazement, he was sober.

Utterly _sober_.

Not even in that state of bothersome hangover, no, his mind was as clear as it hadn’t been in years, a side-effect of involuntary abstinence. Abstinence so long, he was past that painful phrase of needing his poison.

He had nothing else to do than to observe the ceiling in his cell – a cargo hold used as a depository for acids and explosives, all that nasty sort of potentially dangerous things. Soundproof walls, secured door that could not be opened from the inside and no portholes, only a ventilation shaft above him, too high and too narrow for his broad shoulders and a beginning of a beer-gut to fit through.

Absolutely no chance to escape for him.

He was locked away with only his own demons for company, waiting for destiny worse than death – to end up as a slave somewhere in Africa or Arabia. Oh, they surely wanted to convert him into cash, or else he would be long dead. Fish food. Plankton. 

Damned drug-smugglers!

Did he run away from the army, did he run away from all that pain and suffering, a trustworthy bottle of alcohol offering sweet oblivion and blissful forgiveness always by his side, just for _this?_

Through the ventilation shaft he could vaguely hear hubbub outside of Karaboudjan. From that steadfast racket he would wager that they entered a dock of some sort, Port of Brussels, had Allan not changed their planned course. Which seemed unlikely, they had perfectly decent deliveries to unload there. 

After all, drug smuggling needs to maintain good cover.

Brussels, a beautiful city he had been told. A city that withstood The War almost unscathed. A city that hosted one of Netherlands’ ICPC headquarters. 

It would be a perfect opportunity to escape. If only he could think up something. 

_Anything._

But he felt like a fish out of water, dried out and on the verge of giving up all hope.

He scratched his coarse, raven-black beard wearily. “Well, this is a fine mess,” he stated, just to break the monotone, almost deafening silence of his cell. The hollow echo of his words descended on him like a blanket of tar. Absentmindedly, he rubbed his aching side through his navy-blue turtleneck. “A fine mess indeed.”

* * *

#### 9th of July 1932, Brussels, Republiek der Nederlanden

Tintin was a journalist. Not just some random scribbler, but a proper, _accomplished_ journalist. His discipline was high, his ability to remember minute details unbeatable, his survival instinct strong, if lacking to warn him when to quit for his own safety, and his ability to spot an interesting story from miles away bordered on almost paranormal sense. And right now, all his finely honed skills and senses had been wide awake and on alert. 

This mysterious parcel and its contents were going to be more intriguing than that brash pickpocket or even that elusive forger who occupied front-pages for the weeks past.

Tintin just _knew_ it.

“ _On behalf of my friend_ ,” read Tintin aloud, “and yet no name. Why are most academics forgetful of names? Eh, Milou?”

The dog automaton settled himself down between his master’s desk and study door. The ginger reporter could hear the faint sound of cogwheels whirling. Other than that, no answer came.

“Well, I’m no clairvoyant, we better ask professor later. Or …” Tintin rapped his fingers on the parcel, “perhaps we will find out some answers here, what do you think?”

The automaton laid his head on his paws and cast a thoughtful look at the ginger. 

Yet after unwrapping the package, Tintin ended none the wiser. It contained an oblong copper box, stylised engraving of a sunflower on its lid, alongside a note crudely torn from a much bigger sheet of paper, littered by what Tintin assumed to be last part of some incredibly intricate calculation, and some scribbled numbers and letters.

The ginger reporter took a magnifying glass out from his drawer to better decipher a sole continuous line of text. “To take away a rose of the Sunflower from the year she was planted, what an unlucky count. Add four individuals of the principle of the apple fall made public,” he read aloud, rewriting the note in his own leather-bound notepad. “What could it possibly mean?” he pondered.

Then he turned his attention to the box. It wasn’t big per se, roughly the average size of a book, made out of hardened copper, the same resilient alloy as Milou. There was no visible keyhole, nor any sort of latch, and yet Tintin could hear something inside shuffling dully as he turned the box in his hands. Impassive sunflower – the emblem of Tournesol Factory – firmly secured the secret within.

How _delightfully_ interesting.

* * *

#### 10th of July 1932, Brussels, Republiek der Nederlanden

A mere glance at the cloudless sky high above ever-present steam and dark smoke from factory chimneys betrayed another hot day incoming. But despite the early hour, minute hands on various clocks all around the city were rushing towards 7 o’clock, the city of Brussels, from the historical centre to industrial suburbs, was bursting with people in pursuit of their own business, both work-related and leisure.

Tintin stayed up way too late trying to decipher the Tournesol riddle, sadly without any success, so he overslept slightly and thus hadn’t been able to avoid the dreaded morning rush. He should have known better than to set off anyway during this time, but he wanted to get to the University Library shortly after opening. He stood astride over Milou, squeezed between a yawning factory worker and tired mother with arms full of bags of groceries, her child clutching at her dress, the kid’s eyes glued to his mechanical canine companion in fascination.

Tintin’s hand laid nonchalantly on his worn messenger bag. He ought to buy a new one before it will fall apart, but between the pressing necessity to buy new, or more likely, second-hand typewriter and the constant need for Milou’s repairs and patches, he had to hope fervently it will hold for a little bit longer. Nevertheless, it possessed a potentially perfect target for the pickpocket rampaging in the city. Though the reporter had his doubt that anyone would be so brash to challenge the morning rush, it simply bordered on plain stupidity in his mind, that pickpocket nicked people repeatedly in the middle of Brussels in broad daylight and even in close proximity of the police, so Tintin couldn’t be as sure as he would like to be.

As he had an interview arranged during lunch, he opted for a pristine short-sleeve dress shirt and light powder-blue waistcoat accompanied by plain black necktie, more formal look than he usually preferred. Still, he couldn’t abandon his comfortable brown plus-fours and oxford shoes of the same colour with slightly worn soles. 

Tintin whistled at Milou and they made their way through passengers and out of the tram to change lines, only for their destined vehicle to drive away literally in front of them, packed full of people. The next will come in seven minutes, but judging from the mass of people waiting on tram stop, it would be packed as well.

On impulse, Tintin decided to try his luck and see whether the famous detective duo was present at their office. Thompson and Thomson, nicknamed by many as ‘The Twins’, although any sort of relation was vehemently denied by them, were by some wicked stroke of blind luck the finest investigators of International Criminal Police Commission, ICPC for short, commonly referenced as Interpol. They were stubborn but kind-hearted, slow but persistent, and somehow old-fashioned, not only in their sense of fashion ranging from black suits to formal black suits, bowlers worn even in the worst of summer heat, and walking canes. They possessed certain air of ridiculousness. Tintin couldn’t make up his mind whether it was all just an act to confuse potential suspects, or whether they really were that clumsy.

Interpol headquarters in Brussels was located in a modern, fully steam-powered administrative district, in convenient proximity to the historical centre of the city, right next to the tram stop. 

Tintin slipped past elderly porter, who nodded at him in recognition, through imposing corridors and overly wide staircase, crossing paths with several messenger boys and lower-ranked officers, in front of doors to detectives’ office. Checking for the last time whether Milou was by his side, he knocked by force of habit but entered without waiting for an invitation.

“We do not know anything useful.”

“To be precise, nothing we know is useful.”

The detective duo greeted him thusly, hands raised high in the air as if they were surrendering to a thug with a gun.

Tintin blinked. This was new. “I … am not here for an interview?” he tried to calm them down.

“Thank goodness!” The relief on their faces was rather ridiculous.

“So,” Tintin felt justified to draw a conclusion, “still no clues, eh?”

“Nothing,” confessed one of them. 

“It’s like he disappeared into thin air,” added the other.

“Are we talking about the pickpocket or about the forger?” Tintin reached for his notepad, a habit formed due to work, but stopped himself on the last moment.

“No new information about either,” admitted both detectives in unison.

“But a ground-breaking development in another case of ours turned up just yesterday.” Thomson rummaged through various items on his table. Personal knick-knacks, pieces of evidence, stuffed and heavily annotated case-folders were moving to and fro, threatening to fall down any moment. “Here!” Thomson finally found what he was looking for as the whole heap of things on his desk tumbled down. He placed the evidence in Tintin’s hands proudly. 

The reporter looked questioningly at an ordinary can with a bright yellow label on which perched deep-red crab. “Crabmeat?” reckoned Tintin. 

“Not exactly what it says on the can,” Thompson smirked mysteriously. “Now, could you be so kind and open it for us, please?”

Slightly confused, as one is prone to be in the proximity of Thompson and Thomson, and not knowing what to expect, but already learned by experience not to underestimate the detective duo, the reporter squatted down to Milou holding the can near his muzzle. “Can-opener, please,” he ordered.

With clicks and clangs, the automaton opened his mouth to reveal a spear-resembling gadget. The ginger reporter impaled the can onto it unceremoniously and opened it with one skilful swift movement. 

“Great Snakes!” he exclaimed upon seeing its contents.


	6. All Aboard!

#### 10th of July 1932, Brussels, Republiek der Nederlanden

Detectives shared a satisfied smile, while the journalist looked into the can with disgust. “I’m afraid, gentlemen, that you should consider another plan for your lunch. This meat is spoiled.”

_“What?!”_

_“Meat?!”_

Both detectives reached for the can at the same time. They smacked each other’s hands in their haste. Thompson glared at Thomson, who in turn scowled at him. They both took a deep breath in preparation for their legendary accusatory argument, which could go back and forth for hours (the record as measured by certain long-suffering assistant was 5 hours, 23 minutes), so Tintin meaningfully and resolutely cleared his throat.

“Dear boy, forgive us, the evidence must have got mixed somehow.”

“To be precise, we must have mixed it, as evidenced.”

“We shall better use the primordial proof. Here,” Thompson unlocked a small safe, which they used for storing their guns and various pieces of dangerous or valuable evidence, and handed Tintin another, already opened can, “see for yourself.”

“Couldn’t the two of you simply explain what…” Tintin automatically glanced inside the can and stopped mid-sentence. “Saaay, is this, perchance…?”

“Drugs,” Thompson answered his unfinished question.

“Opium, to be precise,” Thomson added.

Tintin looked at the detective duo with a glint in his eyes and a smile on his lips, his journalist instincts kicking in. “ _Do go on._ ”

“Along the way, we had to catch a ship.”

“To be precise, we had a ship to catch. And said ship leaves today.”

“Would you like to accompany us?” they asked in unison.

“Well,” Tintin checked his schedule in his mind. It wasn’t even half-past seven yet, during this time and state of traffic, the ride to the Port would take roughly an hour. He had to dine at _La café d’ chat noir_ , the interview with Mr. Dawson finally arranged after several days of wheedling the business attaché, but said café is in manageable proximity to tram-stop of the line directly from docks. The University Library, to where he was heading prior to stopping here, is open for public up to late evening. Plus, the enigmatic Tournesol box is his, for the time being, so Tintin can devote himself to that mystery after he scores yet another front-page headline. Drug-smuggling, oh, that’s a catch. Especially after weeks of the futile search for clues of the whereabouts and the identity of the elusive forger. All in all, he could spare hour or two. “I have an appointment at noon, so until, let’s say, eleven, I’m all yours.”

So off they went.

“Could you tell me more about that ship you mentioned?” asked Tintin afterwards they all get into detectives’ car, shortly after their typical argument about who would be driving.

“Independent cargo steamboat _Karaboudjan_ , multi-purpose freighter, d.w.t. 80,000 tons,” here Thompson hesitated slightly in his rehearsed presentation of facts, “whatever dwt is supposed to be.”

“For your information,” Thomson was eager to show he actually looked up the meaning of the abbreviation, “it stands for deadweight tonnage.”

“Oh. And that is?”

“Well…” the detective hesitated.

“The amount of weight that the ship could safely carry,” supplied Tintin.

“So you say,” Thompson shrugged his shoulders and continued as if he was never interrupted. “Owned by captain Archibald Haddock, retired with all honours from The Royal Army of The United Kingdom of Great Britain, Ireland and eastern coasts of Europe, no criminal records.”

“And you think that this ship smuggles drugs?” concluded the reporter.

The detective duo started one of their trademark two-person monologue, finishing each other’s sentences naturally. Not even their closest friends, Tintin included, were able to pinpoint exactly who said what. “Not precisely.” “To be precise, we are not sure yet. But, it is the only ship” “that imports these cans to the Netherlands at this moment.” “They anchored yesterday late evening, and” “are scheduled to leave today. You see, dear boy,” “we are on the tracks of those smugglers for quite a long time already,” “to be precise, already way too long, but we still have no tangible proof.” “It is wicked, simply hide the drugs in ordinary cans.” “Yes, simple, wickedly use ordinary cans to hide their drugs.” “But one day,” “they will make a mistake,” “and when they do,” “we will be there” “to apprehend them.” “As our names are Thompson and Thomson,” finished detectives their litany in unison. For the rest of the way, they drove in sombre silence.

Dockland was perpetually drowned in thick fog. The smoke was not as bad as in industrial districts, thanks to the fresh breeze which came along the Willebroek Maritime Canal, but it still had that unmistakable aftertaste of coal and steel. Dampness was clinging to clothes and hairs, settling down in the lungs. Ships were unloaded, some to the point of complete emptiness, only to be reloaded immediately full of various cargo, destined to be delivered all around the world. Massive transport carts drove around, delivering the goods to and fro at an alarming speed, leaving clouds of heavy steam in their wake. The steady thrumming of engines was occasionally drowned out by haggling of sailors and transport-workers, or by a joyous burst of merry-making sounding from various pubs scattered all around the dockland and packed full despite the morning hours.

Detectives parked their car and continued on foot through the busy main part of Port. Tintin walked alongside Thompson and Thomson, Milou in his arms. He didn’t want any damage to happen to his copper companion. The dog automaton rested comfortably, looking around with slightly jerking movements to update his maps of not-yet-explored part of Brussels.

They reached the outermost dock where Karaboudjan anchored. The ship itself was enormous, mostly hidden out of sight in the fog. Its size must have been on the very edge of what the Willebroek Canal could withhold, even with its massive after-war enlargement.

“Is _this_ the Karaboudjan?” asked the reporter in astonishment.

“You could see the name on her prow,” sounded from above. “Or would’ve, if not for this damned mist.” A man appeared on the gangplank. Tall, but not lanky, stout, but not muscular, with a bull neck, hawk nose and a false smile plastered on his face. “Y’all must’ve been those detectives who phoned. Board in.”

The detective duo arrived on deck surprisingly without any accident.

“Many thanks for such a hearty welcome, sir. I’m detective Thomson.”

“Hearty thanks for such a manly welcome, sir. I’m detective Thompson.”

“And this is our apprentice, Tintin,” declared detectives as one man. All three of them had learned the hard way that _“we are detectives and he is a journalist, who we brought along just for sure”_ was not the best of ways to introduce themselves to possible villains. So they used apprentice, which Tintin didn’t mind the slightest. It gave him an advantage in his work, as most people would rather talk with a representative of the force, than a representative of the press.

Tintin put Milou on deck and also shook hands with the sailor, instinctively suspicious of him. “Captain Haddock?”

“Nah, I’m first mate, name’s Allan. The captain is a little indisposed, if you catch my meaning.” Allan accompanied his words with a gesture of drinking. “He met an old comrade yesterday, and once soldiers start reminiscing good old times… well, I bet y’all can imagine.”

_Really responsible_ thought Tintin, but remained silent.

Thompson and Thomson merely nodded.

“Come on, I’ll show you ‘round our lady.” Allan led them into steel innards of Karaboudjan.

When they reached one of the inner rusty staircases, Tintin stepped backwards, not in premonition, but by practice. Canes flew high in the air, bodies fell down from the stairs with dull _thud thud thud_. The ginger journalist nonchalantly reached out, catching the canes before they could follow the call of the gravity as their unfortunate owners did. “Detectives?” he leaned over the bannister, unperturbed, accustomed to such display of the Interpol finest.

“We’re fine!” came clear, if slightly beaten reply from downstairs.

“As usual,” noted Tintin. “Kindly, don’t mind them,” he gave a charming smile to Allan, who was simply standing there with mouth agape, before realising that his automaton dog once again scarpered away. “Ah, crumbs, that wretched automaton of mine, where could he disappeared this time? If you will excuse me, I simply had to find him before he will cause an uproar.”

Detectives grunted their approval while they straightened their crumpled clothes, accepting their canes solemnly.

Allan hid his displeasure in a wide shrug of his shoulders, addressing Tintin: “Wait a little, I’ll get someone to guide you.”

“There is no need, I’ll join you in a moment,” Tintin set off without waiting for an answer. Unsupervised, the ginger wandered deeper and deeper into the ship, through almost empty corridors and along open entrances of cargo holds, using this opportunity to look around thoroughly. Karaboudjan was dark and dusty, rust, grime and dampness everywhere.

On a lower deck, already slightly disoriented by the maze-like layout of freighter vessel, he met a group of machinist in oil-stained overalls, carrying a large toolbox between them.

“Excuse me, haven’t you seen a steam-dog here? It is an FT7 model.”

“Oh, automaton fox-terrier?” asked one of them, strong Slavonic accent colouring his articulation, “I’d love to see it.”

“Wherever it wandered to, it’s not here, boy, so mind your own business.”

“Much obliged, gentlemen,” replied the ginger with a polite smile and curt not. He headed in the direction they came from, disregarding their confused expressions, from time to time calling for his stray companion. “Oh, Milou,” he sighed with barely suppressed frustration after approximately half an hour of futile search. “Where _are_ you?”

A sudden clang behind him made the ginger jump. He turned, hands raised, ready to defend himself. The originator of that sound, his very own dog automaton tilted his head in a quizzical gesture, emitting steam around a bottle of Loch Lomond in his muzzle.

“Ugh, _no_ ,” said Tintin, easing immediately. “You old alcoholic, what did I do to deserve an alcoholic automaton? Return that bottle to where you found it.”

Milou looked at him with head slightly tilted to left, ears sagged, dark eyes begging, the hard-to-resist expression well-known to each and every dog-owner.

“This look won’t help you, you know that,” said Tintin firmly. But it took him a lot of willpower to keep a stern face. “Here, give me that thing. Good boy. Now, let’s return it, shall we? From where did you confiscate it, huh? Lead me, boy.”

Milou’s head drooped in acceptance of cruel, Loch Lomond-less fate and he obediently led Tintin into one of the many cargo holds, a spacious cabin full of crates, boxes and chests. In the middle of the room stood a big crate with a branded sign of the renowned distillery, pried open, several bottles already missing from it.

The automaton dog disappeared amongst crates stacked along the wall, curious whether he can find another interesting thing, which he might be allowed to keep.

The ginger sighed and shook his head fondly, amused more than annoyed by the antics of his companion, then moved towards the crate intending to return the bottle, grab Milou and join Thompsons and first mate. Something rolled out from Milou’s hiding place and Tintin, not looking under his feet, kicked it towards the Loch Lomond crate. It clunked and clattered, bouncing off the crate and backwards to the reporter, drawing his attention. Tintin stopped dead in his track. He stared for a moment, dumbfounded beyond words, then he squatted down and quickly grabbed the item, as if it could disappear into thin air if he loses it from sight.

A can of crab meat, crumpled and opened. And full of opium.

“Well well well,” the ginger reporter could barely believe his luck. “What do we have here?”

“Только надоедливого мальчика,[1]” came suddenly from behind him in clear and crisp Russian, and Tintin’s world darkened.

Meanwhile, Thomson and Thompson apologised to the mate, satisfied with their scrutiny of cargo hold 9, where the cans of crab meat were stored.

“We are terribly sorry to bother you,” said one.

“We are terrible bother, sorry you,” said the other.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Allan said, sly smile resting on his lips. “Drugs smuggled in ordinary cans of meat, that’s ingenious, if I may say so myself. No one normal would have suspected such a thing. You have my admiration, detectives. Such a pity you didn’t found any clue here, heh?” He escorted them outside the hull and towards the gangplank. “Now, unless you have any other inquiries, we should better set sails soon. Deliveries won’t wait, you know,” he smirked. “So, ‘bout your apprentice…”

A tall, stout sailor with dull expression emerged on the deck. “Mate,” he nodded at Allan, then he turned his attention to the detective duo. “Detectives, your… erm… boy had come ahead. He said that he has something urgent to do.”

“Oh, yes. Remember, Thompson? He has that meeting, at ten o’clock.”

“No, Thomson, your memory is simply terrible. The meeting is supposed to be at one. Thank you, sir, for giving us his message.”

With courteous tips on their bowlers, detectives stepped on the gangplank. Thompson tripped over the coiled rope, Thomson tried to catch him and they both fell down, miraculously not breaking anything.

“Really?” muttered the stout sailor. “I thought that only Cap’n is such a klutz.”

“ _Tom?_ ” Allan’s tone of voice was light, soft even, but it hid a promise of unendurable suffering if what was about to be told wouldn’t be to his liking.

“Yeah, well…” Tom gulped. He didn’t want to provoke the wrath of the first mate. No one sane did. They all remembered way too well how poor Jumbo ended. May that scoundrel’s soul rest in peace. “Yeah. That boy is locked in hold 13.” Due to surprised and somewhat sceptical look of the first mate, Tom hastily explained: “Ivan said that he sniffed out the goods. And we already have one slave for sale, so what’s the difference?”

“Money,” Allan stated, a dark sneer spreading on his face. “We will get better money for that pretty boy.”

After all, the world turns thanks to money.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 "Tol'ko nadoyedlivogo mal'chika." ought to be Russian (if I remember correctly) for "Just a meddlesome boy." [return to text]


	7. A little Help from Above

#### 11th of July 1932, Karaboudjan, English territorial waters

Why do they always aim for the head?

Tintin was holding his throbbing head in his arms, wishing the pain away.

No, seriously, why do they _always_ aim for the head? _It hurts._ It hurts _like a hell_. Well, it has to be admitted that it is one of the easiest ways to knock somebody out, but still ... This irked the ginger to no end. He might end up with some serious brain damage if this would become a regular occurrence.

Milou nudged his head into Tintin’s hands, nuzzling his master with silent puffs.

The ginger reporter looked sharply up, slightly sick from such a sudden movement, but amazed beyond words. He thought that his automaton was forever lost to him, commandeered by those who kidnapped him.

“Milou! _Oh, Milou!_ ” Tintin hugged his copper companion tightly, resting his sore head on the small form. For a while, with his eyes closed, he listened to the calming sound of whirling cogwheels of Milou’s mechanical heart.

“Have you been hiding the whole time?” Fondly, Tintin polished Milou’s ears. “I bet you must have burned up almost all the fuel, right?” Normally, Tintin refuels his mechanical dog every morning, though technically automatons could function for several days without a refuel. Keeping Milou at top form proved unexpectedly useful more than once. But since their last peaceful morning was a hectic rush, so frantic that even Tintin himself omitted breakfast, and the day before consisted of trotting all around the city of Brussels, Milou, regrettably not the newest model, was probably nearing to running dry. Tintin skipped this part of his morning routine, hoping to refuel his copper companion sometime later. As Milou didn’t need special fuel, any liquid could be used, which was incredibly convenient.

Especially in situations like these.

The reporter stood up, ignoring the blunt throbbing of his head and blaming the ship movements for his unsteady feet. “Perhaps we might find something of use in here.” His eyes immediately fell upon the opened Loch Lomond crate. Tintin tilted his head, looking at his automaton, who mirrored his contemplative look. Tintin could have sworn that glimmer of anticipation lit up Milou’s eyes. “Well,” he stated with a shrug, “I guess we have not much of an option.” He kneeled down, unbolted the latch on Milou’s back and poured the whole bottle into his automaton fuel tank.

Milou shuddered and jerked his head up and down. When Tintin closed the latch tightly shut, the freshly-charged automaton turned around several times, prancing not unlike a pony, then he sat drunkenly down, opening his muzzle to let out excess steam.

Tintin, despite the grave situation they once again ended in, couldn’t suppress a laugh full of mirth. The young reporter rubbed his hands together, flexing his fingers and wincing slightly due to slowly ebbing pain in his head. “Let’s see what kind of a pickle we got ourselves into this time, hm?”

First of all, he needs to ascertain their situation.

Tintin checked the surrounding – the very cargo hold in which he found the opium. The door was locked shut, imposing steel walls successfully muffled any screams for help, no matter how loud, the hull was lined with a row of portholes of the size he would be able to squeeze through without a problem, due to his petite physique. But despite prevalent options of some of his colleagues, Tintin was not a death-seeker. He would rather not risk a reckless venture through a porthole into the unfamiliar and very likely hostile environment outside. Not to mention the impenetrable darkness and the fact, that he could feel the thrumming of the engines, the movement of the ship, steadily sailing further and further away. The almost imperceptible sloshing of waves against hull chilled him to the bone. Learning how to swim was never considered an important skill worth teaching in the orphanage he grew up in, and as automatons were sensitive to water, Milou would not be able to help him anyhow, had he falls down. It was completely different than in China, when he left his copper dog safely on riverside acting as an anchor to save a certain drowning boy. The bone-seeping coldness of muddy water, the strength of torrent that kept knocking him down, how slippery and frail Milou’s chain felt in his grip, the _helplessness_ , it all haunted Tintin to this day.

With every breath Tintin took, with every idle moment, their chances of safe escape were decreasing. Although it would take days to sail out of Interpol jurisdiction, alarming Thompson and Thomson was sometimes a herculean effort. Once, Tintin spent more than hour trying to persuade them that: yes, he does really need their official help, no, he is no longer in Netherland, yes, he had been kidnapped, no, he has no idea why this time, and so on and so on, that unfortunate hotel receptionist, whose telephone he had been using, seriously contemplating calling for local police herself. _One whole hour._ It was ridiculous!

Rather than dwelling in the past, Tintin should better estimate their position. Let’s see, Tintin pondered, travelling distance from Port of Brussels to Nord Sea is roughly 5 hours by the average speed of 40 km-per-hour, so… by now… a glance at wristwatch revealed a quarter past two in the morning, which means he had been unconscious for several hours, therefore… the interview went to blazes.

_Crumbs._

Tintin moaned out loud. Hergé, his longsuffering editor, does already complains that Tintin spends more time entangled in some random crime investigation, or, worse, kidnapped, than doing his actual work. Which was not the truth. All the investigations Tintin got involved in _related_ to his work.

Besides, he had been actually kidnapped only twice.

Nevertheless, by now the Karaboudjan could be practically anywhere.

_Well_ , concluded Tintin, _this is a fine mess_.

But he had worse.

His captors left nothing in this makeshift cell which he could turn into an improvised weapon. A ventilation shaft high above was the only way out. It would be a tight squeeze, but it must do.

“All right, boy,” the ginger reporter patted his automaton dog on his head, “we’re going to do what we are best at. Improvise.”

Tintin unscrewed Milou’s tail, revealing a thin, ten feet long chain. The normally visible tailpiece served as a weight at one end, the other side ended with an elongated rod, which transformed into a miniature grappling-hook. The reporter hooked it on the service lid of the ventilation shaft above with practised swing on the first try. He yanked the chain for trial, to see whether it holds securely. Taking a deep breath, he gradually put all of his weight on the chain, expecting the lid to loosen.

No such luck.

Tintin jerked with the chain, groaning irritably, jerked again for good measure, but that confounded lid still held tightly. The ginger looked around, searching for a suitable weight. The crates were overly spacious for his short chain, and overly heavy for him to even move around, let alone lift, the goods inside, as far as Tintin knew, of no use either. Milou jumped onto a stack of crates, turned to Tintin, tilted his head and emitted a puff of snow-white steam, looking at his master expectantly. The ginger reporter looked back at his copper companion in wonder, which quickly turned into a grin. Tintin fastened the free end of the chain around his handy dog-device, creating a harness of sorts for Milou. He carefully eased his dog into the air, allowing him to dangle beneath the ventilation like a pendulum.

Once again, Tintin put all of his weight on the chain, and now even Milou was helping, automaton’s feet kicking frantically in the air, as if treading water, trying to reach to the floor.

Suddenly, the lid broke loose, landing loudly onto a pile of crates, sending Tintin and his copper companion down into a heap. The ginger reporter lay completely still, holding his breath, eyes on the door. Seconds passed by, yet no one came rushing in, alerted by his overly loud escape attempt. Tintin breathed out with relief. Hastily, he extricated the grappling-hook from the lid, once again hooked the useful gadget to the ventilation and climbed into the shaft, hauling Milou up after himself.

* * *

#### 11th of July 1932, Brussels, Republiek der Nederlanden

He crept upstairs, silent as death.

The whole house had been soundly sleeping, no one inside knew of his presence, no one outside realised he does not belong in there. All that was needed was a little bit of acting, just a little bit of stumble and a heavy lean and fumbling with his extensive collection of stray keys which were acquired over the years of his successful career as a burglar. Even the policeman on night patrol disregarded him as mere drunkard returning home after an extended drinking spree.

Picking a lock of a flat was a piece of cake compared to breaking into a house. People thought themselves safe inside houses with a solid front door with old latches and new locks, so they didn’t bother to properly secure their own flat entrances.

He slipped in, bottle with a highly corrosive solution of ferric chloride already opened and ready. Furtively, he closed the door behind himself. And waited.

Waited for the automaton companion of the flat rightful owner to show up, disturbed by his entrance.

But the flat remained silent.

He walked through the tiny entrance hall into the central living room with a small kitchenette, not creeping anymore, that might be suspicious now, but he moved confidently, as if the place belonged to him. He checked the bathroom, then the surprisingly spacious study, the room obviously intended to be the master bedroom, and only then, certain that he won’t be disturbed, he entered the actual bedroom.

The bed was empty, unslept in.

He smacked his lips in displeasure.

He hoped that that youngling would be home, sleeping peacefully, oblivious of the harsh fate awaiting him. That famed, wonder boy reporter was such a pretty thing. Youthful. Innocent. Petite. Lithe. Baby-faced with expressive eyes.

_Fuckable._

Exactly the kind of prey he preferred.

But alas, no fun for him this night, just work.

He sighed, suppressing his disappointment, and cast last mournful look at the bed in which Tintin should have been sleeping. Then he turned towards the empty living room. The mantelpiece clock showed half-past two in the morning, not even two hours till dawn. But without a distraction, he ought to find the casing in no time.

* * *

#### 11th of July 1932, Karaboudjan, English territorial waters

Archibald Haddock, retired officer of The Royal Army of The United Kingdom of Great Britain, Ireland and eastern coasts of Europe, currently teetering on the verge of hysteria, was pacing to and fro in his cell.

He had been doing it ceaselessly for hours now. Trying to rouse his resourcefulness, trying to wear himself down, he was not even sure anymore. All he knew was that he simply cannot lie silently in the corner awaiting his harsh destiny. He was past denial of his miserable situation, past anger at his disregard of all the warning signs that were clear as sky after the storm in hindsight, past bargaining with his non-responsive captors lead by his spiteful first-mate, past depression caused by his pitiful self and the state he willingly and purposefully got himself into, past acceptance of his fate. He went through the full circle several times, over and over again, both his body and mind stuck on repeat.

He was desperate.

He needed to escape.

He needed a plan to escape.

He needed to rouse his apathetic mind to concoct a foolproof plan to escape _his own ship_.

All right, he might as well ask for a miracle! Nothing else could probably work.

Lost in thoughts, he scratched his beard, which was also in a desperate need to be trimmed. An idea appeared in his mind, too vague and intangible to be realisable at all.

_Right._

It’s hopeless, he’s totally screwed.

Thunder and storm and Poseidon’s farts! He ain’t gonna die in a corner! Haddocks don’t give up so easily!

Well, ain’t he a black sheep of his family after all?

Billions of bilious blistering barnacles, he is in the biggest mess he has _ever_ been!

The battle of Heligoland Bight didn’t even come close to this awaiting of own demise. And he was sure that time, he was so _damn_ sure that he ain’t gonna survive that hell of a war.

Archibald punched the wall, actually growling out of frustration. “ _Deck it all!_ ” he yelled, his strong voice angrily reverberating through the empty room. He laid his forehead on the unyielding, cold steel wall with a dull thud. “Deck it all,” he whispered, desperate. Out of other options, overwhelmed by feeling trapped like a rat, he again resumed to pacing, hands joined behind his back.

When he was little and his situation was unbearable and seemingly unsolvable, the immediate future looking bleak, his mother always smiled and said: _“Do each and every thing that is in your powers. And if it is not enough, kindly ask God for a little help.”_

He lost all of his meagre faith long ago, memories of the Great War still haunting him during sleepless nights.

But, well, his situation could hardly get any worse.

“Oh, _fine!_ ” He stopped, pinching the bridge of his nose. Facing defiantly up, he spread his hands wide apart and against his better judgement asked the Above for a miracle: “A little help?”

And, you see, as Above has a rather twisted sense of humour, that was the exact time when the lid of ventilation shaft directly overhead Archibald Haddock gave up under Tintin’s and Milou’s combined weight.


	8. The Enemy of my Enemy

#### 11th of July 1932, Karaboudjan, English territorial waters

One does not walk through such an experience as war without getting to know pain intimately.

One does not survive a single battle without learning everything about his own worst.

One does not forget all the suffering and desperation and the faces of lost friends.

One does not carry a scar without painful memories.

But this…

This was a whole _new_ level of pain.

Was that the answer from Above?

Was that the answer? Striking him down, like a mere heretic, with a ventilation lid, a boy and an automaton dog?

Wait a little…

_A boy and an automaton dog?_

…What?

_What the actual fuck?!_

Right, why not? _Whyever not?_ Who said that the Absinthe Fairy had to be a woman? Archibald Haddock was perhaps a tad bit sober to be hallucinating right now, but it might as well be the sing of him finally losing the last shreds of his sanity.

Expressive green eyes observed him with caution. He could clearly saw, albeit through the haze of pain, how the relief from seeing him not actually dead quickly turned to dread from being discovered. The boy attempted to scramble away backwards, the ventilation lid screeching beneath him.

Archibald lunged at him out of sheer instinct, catching the ginger by his ankle. He was rewarded by a well-aimed kick that punched the air out of his lungs, causing him to huff painfully and curl into himself.

Tintin used the momentum from the kick for a backward roll from which he stood up with agility gained from practising yoga. The ginger turned to the door, ready for a mad dash to freedom, only to realise that they are trapped inside.

Archibald, still feeling totally dumbstruck and not wanting to lose, hurled himself at the boy, catching him by surprise and capturing him in a headlock.

Milou, who up to this point ignored the scuffle, lunged onto wrestling men. The faithful automaton gnawed at Haddock’s calf, steadily increasing the pressure of his blunt jaws, while Tintin squirmed in the unwanted hug.

“Oh, for Columbus sake!” Archibald growled exasperatedly. “Calm down, I ain’t gonna hurt yer!”

Tintin went limp it the grasp of the other man, beckoning Milou to stop by a simple gesture of a hand. The dog automaton released his clench, but stayed in position, ready to defend his master.

To add weight to his words, Haddock let go of the ginger and stepped away slightly. “Thundering typhoons, yer kick like a mule, lad,” he grumbled, rubbing his aching chest.

At that, his unexpected visitor chortled. “And you, sir, have a grip like a bear.” He rubbed his neck, slightly reddened from all the pressure applied there a mere moment ago.

They stood on the opposite sides of the fallen ventilation lid, eyeing each other speculatively, trying to determine the potential thread the other might represent.

“So, why are you locked in here?” the young reporter cannot suppress his inquisitiveness any more.

“I disagree with Mate’s course of action. Why are _yer_ crawling through the ventilation?”

“Believe it or not, I stumbled, quite literally, upon smuggled opium.”

“Oh, I have no problem believing _that_ ,” Captain stated humourlessly. “Well, welcome aboard, lad.”

“Tintin.”

“Huh?”

“I am called Tintin.”

Common courtesy commands to reciprocate introduction, no matter how confusing the situation might be. “Archibald Haddock, ’t yer service.”

Upon hearing the name, the ginger perked his head up. “Wait wait. Aren’t you the captain of this ship?”

Haddock snorted and threw his hands wide apart. “Does this look like a bridge to yer?”

“Frankly, more like a cell.” Tintin tilted his head, reassessing Captain. He changed his stance slightly, ready for another bout of a fight. “Disagreement over the share of the profit?”

Archibald regaled Tintin with his worst glare. “Do I look like a smuggler?”

The ginger reporter shuddered under the intensity of Captain’s glare, but shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. “Appearance can be deceiving.”

“Yer seems to be a fine example of this statement.”

“Me? I am a mere defenceless reporter.”

Archibald snorted and eyed Tintin knowingly. “ _Sure yer are._ How many had been fooled by that innocent face of yer’s?”

“That’s a professional secret,” grinned the ginger journalist. “But, you must have known something, I mean, you are the captain.”

“I dinnae have the slightest inkling,” Haddock admitted sheepishly.

“How come?”

“Well, I…” Archibald actually felt ashamed under Tintin’s speculative gaze, “… might’ve been… a tad drunk. More like a dead drunk. Most of the time”

“Figures.” Tintin was not bothering to hide his disapproval.

“Aye.” Archibald shifted his weight on his feet, feeling like a schoolboy caught breaking rules.

Tintin observed him, debating internally. He didn’t like the idea of taking the sailor along, but deep down he knew he just cannot leave the man to the tender mercy of those smugglers. “ _If_ you really didn’t know about the smuggling,” he broke the uncomfortable silence finally, “will you be willing to testify against your crew at the court?”

“ _If_ we will be alive to see them to a court, I’d love to sink those bashi-bazooks down. What they did is a mutiny, lad, and that’s unforgivable. No matter how bad the captain might be, to entangle in smuggling and slavery _behind_ his back…”

“Slavery?” interrupted Tintin Captain’s outburst.

“Why d’yer think they let us both alive? Yer’d bring a pretty penny in Arabia.”

“I’m aware,” Tintin suppressed a shudder at that memory. “But, no offence, you…” he motioned at Haddock, “… aren’t exactly a typical slave material.”

“Aye, well, some people have _weird_ tastes. Best not to think ‘bout it.”

That was an advice Tintin intended to listen to. “Very well then. I’ll get us both to the safety of Interpol’s jurisdiction and you’ll testify about this whole sordid affair. How does it sound?” The ginger suddenly snapped his fingers as he remembered his occupation. “Oh! And you’ll give me an exclusive interview.”

Archibald chuckled. “Sounds like a deal.”

“Then it’s a deal.” Tintin outstretched his hand towards Captain.

Haddock shook it. “Though I’m curious ‘bout how yer intends to do just that.”

“Simple,” smiled Tintin. “First, we need to get out of this room.”

“ _No kidding. How?_ Hate to break it to yer, lad, but I ain’t no ballerina, I could hardly squeeze through the ventilation.”

“I’ve walked that path and I have no intention to return to it.”

“And how, pray tell mae, yer suggest to exit this humble chamber of mae?” Captain leaned on the wall next to the door and folded his arms for emphasis.

“With a little help from the modern technology, Captain,” Tintin smiled smugly and bend down to tap Milou on his head. The automaton dog extended his left forepaw and let Tintin unscrew it, revealing a set of universal key, taper file, corkscrew and screwdrivers hidden inside.

“Ah,” stated Haddock, not actually surprised anymore. “Yer got a walking army knife.”

Tintin chuckled and started to work patiently on loosening the hinges of the door with his burglar set.

“So, tell mae, what is our best chance of survival?”

The ginger reporter thought for a moment. Between the two of them, they could hardly take over a ship as big as Karaboudjan. Playing hide and seek in cargo holds with the ruffians of the crew until they dock in their next planned stop might, in theory, provide them with a decent chance, but it was still extremely risky. Add the fact that damaging the radio is _absolutely_ out of option, since one could never know when a ship might end up in need of sending a distress signal. There was, however, still one course of action, although it bordered on the sheer lunacy. But, what other option do they have? “Let’s hijack a lifeboat,” proposed Tintin calmly.

“ _Hijack a lifeboat?_ ” Archibald repeated in disbelief, his voice cracking out of sheer surprise.

“Yes.”

“ _From mae own ship?!_ ”

“Unless you have a better idea.”

Haddock observed the young madman distrustfully. “Right,” he stated, persuading himself. Well, he asked the Above for a miracle and, apparently, a ginger devil heard out his plea. “Let’s hijack a lifeboat.”

After all, it’s not the craziest thing he did.

But on his defence, he had been dead-drunk the other time.

Tintin grinned at him. “Done,” he tapped on the door. “Now help me unhinge those.”

The powerful steam-engines steadfastly reverberated through the empty corridors of the freighter, their steady thrumming the only sound in the death of the night.

Tintin carried Milou in his arms, not wanting him to cause unnecessary uproar and wishing once again that his canine companion was not as heavy.

He could feel the sweat drenching his shirtsleeves. “Are we close to boilers?” he whispered, shifting Milou in his arms, so he could wipe his brows. The heat was barely bearable.

“Aye. But keep yer voice low. Most of the machinists are light sleepers. We dinnae want any troubles.”

“I probably have to warn you that I’m considered to be a magnet for troubles.”

“And I was born under The Star of Clumsiness. Now, hush, and pray for luck to all the saint yer know.”

They sneaked through the boiler room, the rumble of the engines accompanied by thunderous snoring of the machinist on duty, who was napping on a bunk bed next to the control panel.

Safely outside the hearing range of the slumbering machinist, Archibald wiped his brow and released the breath he had been holding up to now. He signed to Tintin to silently follow and led them through maze of grimy maintenance shafts, poorly lit corridors and half-empty cargo holds with the certainty of someone who knows the ship high and low, from prow to stern, aware of every shortcut in existence. They climbed up several steep ladders until Haddock opened a heavy door leading to deck and ushered Tintin outside. “Great!” Captain punched the air out of joy. “Nay a soul in sight.”

“That is hardly surprising, considering the time.” Tintin tried to check his watch, but even though the first tentative rays of the rising sun were attempting to break the rule of the night, he was unable to see details on the clock face. Yet, since the dawn was breaking, he could safely assume that it was around half-past four.

“Now, help mae, landlubber, we better hit the water before they’ll wake,” Haddock tugged at the pulley of the nearest lifeboat. It reminded Tintin of the riverboats he has seen while in London. Built for fifteen men approximately, almost completely roofed, a small boiler with a tiny funnel and a coal-scuttle occupying whole stern, it would look majestic if not hanging on massive chains by the side of a ship of the size of Karaboudjan.

“ _This_ is the lifeboat?”

“What d’yer expected? A wee wooden boat with oars?”

“Well… yes,” admitted Tintin.

Haddock grinned at the ginger. “Did I caught yer by surprise, mister reporter?”

“Utterly in the positive meaning of the word, Captain. Which doesn’t happen often,” Tintin cannot help but grin back.

* * *

#### 11th of July 1932, Malbork, Königreich Preußen

Professor Calculus awoke with a terrible headache. It must have been the Mother of all migraines. His head was spinning, his mouth felt dry and his stomach threatened to return its contents to broad daylight. It was substantially worse than that time Cuthbert managed to blow up his old laboratory.

By theory, there was only one substance which could cause such symptoms – Trichloromethane.

Cuthbert sheepishly looked around, not bothering to suppress groans. He was not in a dingy cell, as he expected, but in a large room furnished by antique, well-kept furniture. Rather small windows transmitted just enough of forenoon light. Everything was precisely cleaned, not a speck of dust, there was even floral decoration on the bedside table.

Well then, this proved an interesting twist of recent events.

“Guten Tag, Herr Professor,” sounded from the direction of the doors, too loud for Cuthbert’s suffering head. A tall man in a perfectly tailored suit, chestnut hair combed into a dandy wave in accordance with the latest German trends, was standing in the doorframe. “Gut zu sehen Sie endlich wach sind.[2]”

Professor blinked at him sluggishly. Normally he didn’t have any problem with languages; shifting between his native Dutch, related German, widely used English and lively French, as well as several others, became the second nature of Calculus. He was after all an engineer, a man of science, never caring about boundaries or nationalities. But right now his mind was slowed by chloroform haze.

“Ah, do forgive. Would English be better?” the man asked, his pronunciation affected strongly with the German way of speaking.

Cuthbert merely dully nodded.

“My name is Spalding and I speak on behalf of your avid admirer, who has to remain unnamed for the moment. But allow me to welcome you instead of him here in Malbork.”

It was as well as saying the name aloud. Only one man in the whole Prussian Kingdom would be able to arrange the kidnapping of Tournesol Factory chief-engineer, benefitting from such atrocious deed extensively.

Spalding continued, seemingly not caring whether the professor would be able to connect the dots. “Kindly forgive that rude way we had to use to get you here.” That was rather a benevolent description of getting chloroformed and forcibly stuffed into a boot of a car on a busy street of Hannover in the middle of the day. “You have been rather busy in the last ten days, professor, going abroad sightseeing so suddenly, one could even think that you tried to run away…” Spalding smiled darkly. “That must have been exceedingly exhausting. Luckily, you will have plenty of time to rest here. You see, professor, my… hm, benefactor, for the lack of better words, is in dire need of your brilliant engineering skills. Thus, I am afraid that you have no other option than to work for me.”

And Cuthbert decided to do the most awful, most wicked, most foul, simply the most dastard thing he was able to.

With a stern expression, he looked Spalding right into eyes. “Young man,” he stated disgustedly, “that’s absolutely preposterous! For such a thing you would want a _pony_?”

He would pretend that his hearing aid does not work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2Good day, Professor. Great to see You are finally awake. [return to text]


	9. Two Men in a Lifeboat (not to mention the Automaton Dog)

#### 11th of July 1932, English territorial waters

“ _Come on_ , Nietche was an idiot.”

“He certainly was _not_. He is just misunderstood.”

“ _Misunderstood, mae hairy ass!_ Mae _aunt_ was misunderstood.” Archibald dug out one of the provision boxes from the hideaway underneath helmsman’s seat and set it up next to the steering wheel. He then grinned at Tintin, who was sitting opposite him. “Betcha yer meant _misinterpreted_.”

Tintin couldn’t help but chuckle and shake his head. “Right you are, Captain. _Misinterpreted_. But not as much as Heidegger.”

“Oh, don’t get mae started about Heidegger.”

“What do you have _against_ Heidegger? He is actually a rather nice fellow.” Before Haddock could ask why Tintin think so, the journalist elaborated: “I interviewed him after the lecture he gave in Brussels University as part of his European tour.”

“Well, lucky yer. The absent-minded professors are great fun to hang out with. Aye. The objectness of the object. I got lost within the first sentence.”

“The concept is not that hard to understand, if you give it some thought. But his explanation is rather… heavy,” admitted the journalist.

“Aye. I think Heidegger likes to listen to himself.” Captain readjusted the course slightly and checked the pressure of the boiler. “But I must admit, he has a way with words. Should have been a poet.”

Tintin laughed aloud. “On that, Captain, we agree. But I still think that Kierkegaard's assumptions are worse. His opinion on humanity is like a lovechild of depression and despair.”

Archibald whistled and made a mockingly shocked face, yet his eyes sparkled with mirth. “So small and yet so sarcastic. Is it ‘cause yer mortal soul is closer to the realm of hell?”

Tintin smirked at the man at the steering wheel. “Well, aren’t I in a proper company, then?”

Haddock sniggered, indicating his surrender with upturned palms. “Yer got mae there. Biscuit?” He scrutinised the contents of the provision box. “The only other edible thing in here is an apple, and, frankly, I ain’t gonna risk that. Maggot had beaten us to it.”

“Then leave it to that poor hungry thing. It hasn’t much time to live anyway. Nothing else in there?”

“Well, several cans of luncheon meat and,” Captain snorted, “talk ‘bout irony, _crab meat_. Aaand,” like a magician revealing a rabbit from his seemingly empty hat, he pulled out a brown glass bottle, “yo-ho-ho, a bottle of rum.”

“Throw that thing overboard.”

Captain gave him a baffled look.

The reporter pointed meaningfully on the bottle. “Didn’t it get you into this mess in the first place?”

“Aye.” Archibald gulped, casting a longing look at the cheap rum in his hands. “Aye, yer’ right.” He cannot find the will to move.

Tintin leaned over his automaton, resting by his feet like a real tired dog, and took the bottle out of Captain’s hands. Without aiming he thrown it out of the lifeboat.

Milou followed the trajectory of the bottle with his eyes, and when it splashed into the water he looked at his owner expectantly. But since the order of _fetch_ did not come, he laid his head back down on his outstretched feet, puffing contentedly.

The silence stretched between them, almost uncomfortable.

“Thanks,” murmured Haddock after a while.

Tintin merely nodded. “So, how long till we reach the shore?

Captain looked above to the bright, blue sky, then he cast a contemplative glance towards the outline of English coats far ahead of them. “A day and a half. Or two. Shan't take any longer. Unless the weather changes drastically.”

“Hmm.” Tintin absentmindedly polished Milou’s ears.

“Pretty view, eh?” Haddock once again adjusted the course. “The sky ain’t ever so clear on the land.”

Tintin thought he had seen clear sky before. During his numerous travels, when he trekked through the humid and lush jungles of India, or when he had been running for his life through the winding and dirty streets of San Theodoros. But it could not compare to this. This was blue of the very core of the colour. Blue without a flaw, without a single cloud or smudge of steam and dirt. Just pure, bright blue. Blue of the pellucid sea was reflected in the sky, and blue of the endless sky intensified the depth of the sea, only the slightly darker coastline of land indicating where one ends and the other begins.

“No,” admitted Tintin. “No, it’s not.”

“It would’ve been better had we been further away from the industrial land. This is still somewhat dirty.”

“Dirty?”

Oh no, it was not, it certainly could not be. Dirty sky, that was the sky above Shanghai, above all of China, polluted with industry and heavy machinery and excessive production in myriads of factories scattered all around the great country. That was dirty sky, grey and smudged, always looking like it will burst out crying, tears of acid rain that leave the ground dirtier than it already was.

“Oh, yer should see the sky above the ocean, when the land is just a distant memory. Or in the arctic. Now, _that’s_ a clear sky. So blue it’s practically pellucid.”

“That might be nice.”

“Aye.” Captain smiled. There was sadness in that smile, something deep that Tintin didn’t understand.

Not knowing what to do or say, the ginger journalist turned to his faithful automaton. “The hide, please.”

Milou playfully rolled on his back, allowing Tintin to slide his stomach plate open.

“Blistering barnacles!” exclaimed Haddock. “Yer got a strongbox in that thing?”

“He’s not a _thing_ , he’s my dog. And his name is Milou.”

Captain put his hands up in a defence posture. “Sorry. It just startled mae.”

Tintin rolled his eyes and pulled out the Tournesol box. His movement caused the sun to reflect dazzlingly from the hardened copper. The journalist then slid Milou’s stomach plate back and patted his canine companion. “Automatons like these are harmless,” he proclaimed gravely.

Captain laughed loudly, his hand unthinkingly clutched the blue turtleneck on his left side. “ _Right_. I still have the imprints of his teeth on mae calf.”

“ _You_ are overreacting. He doesn’t even _have_ teeth.”

“That ain’t mean he cannot take a bite of poor man’s calf.”

Tintin sighed and shook his head in resigned amusement. “You are terrible,” he stated finally.

“At yer service, mister reporter. Sooo, how did yer got him anyway? They’re bloody expensive. Not a thing a third-rate scribbler could afford.”

“For your information, I am an accomplished journalist,” Tintin folded his arms and all but pouted, acting very mature.

Captain snorted. “In yer dreams, _laddie_.”

The ginger smacked his cheeks in frustration. “Oh, that wretched baby-face of mine,” he murmured.

“Tcha! Don’t pretend, lad, yer certainly know how to use yer face to yer’s advantages, ain’t I right? Well?”

Tintin capitulated. There ought to be no harm in revealing _certain_ , carefully selected and somewhat edited, bits and pieces of his life to Captain Haddock. After all, they are both stuck in the same predicament, and he needs the man’s skill for reaching the shore. Tintin had no doubt he would be able to learn how to steer the boat had the situation necessitate it, but he felt no desire to expand the already vast numbers of vehicles he can operate. “I found him ditched on the streets in Paris, well-worn but still functional.”

Archibald hmm’ed. “Did yer repair him by yerself?”

“Oh no, I am absolutely terrible in technology. One of my acquaintances owns a small repair service.” Tintin thought for a moment. “Honestly, I think he runs it solely from the money I spend there for Milou’s patches.”

“So, a casing in a strongbox? Yer surely must hide something important in there.”

“Casing?” Tintin lifted the mysterious box. “This?”

“Ain’t that a file casing? We used these for carrying documents during the War.” Captain once again checked the course and then he leaned closer to the boy, whispering conspiratorially: “What yer got inside?”

“Not the foggiest,” shrugged the journalist his shoulders. “Somebody sent this to me a few days ago, via a mutual friend, with a mysterious riddle and a plea to look after it for time being.”

“Yer surely lead an uneventful life.”

“Such are the perils of fame.” Tintin attempted to look innocently, but his lips quirked.

Archibald nodded solemnly. “What a sordid fate.”

Their eyes meet and within seconds both of them were grinning like idiots.

Still with a huge grin, Tintin scrutinised the box. “You say it is a file casing, but I do not see any lock.”

“Allow mae.” Captain reached for the casing. “Come on, laddie, I ain’t gonna throw yer’s precious riddle overboard.”

With a slight hesitation, Tintin lent him the copper box.

Captain laid it on his lap. “If it’s a standard one, yer need to…” he pressed the petals of the sunflower with his fingers. With a soft click, the whole engraving ascended slightly, just enough that one could grip the flower to pull it a few inches out. Archibald then turned it sideways on a cog hidden in the bottom of the engraving to reveal a miniature dial. “See?” he stated. “Here’s yer lock.”

“Clever,” acknowledged Tintin.

Haddock handed him the casing back. “But don’t try to open it unless yer know the right combination. If yer don’t wish for an acid splash.”

“Red Rackham’s curse?” Tintin was impressed. The old safety system named after an infamous pirate from 17th century, who created it to protect his own illegally acquired wealth, was not as widely used as before the War, but still considered an efficient, if somewhat indecent, anti-theft device.

“Aye. Unless it is customised to something even worse.”

“Just so you know,” Tintin stated, “I believe I figured the right combination already.” He pulled out his notepad, grateful that the thugs from Karaboudjan crew didn’t bother to search him and confiscate his meagre possession, leafing to the page on which he rewrote the odd riddle that accompanied the parcel. “I simply needed a way to enter it.”

“Huh?”

“ _To take away a rose of the Sunflower from the year she was planted, what an unlucky count. Add four individuals of the principle of the apple fall made public_ ,” Tintin quoted from his notepad.

“That’s a lotsa gibberish. Doesn’t even rhyme.”

The ginger huffed and shook his head. “That’s the key I’ve been sent along with the parcel. If we analyse it, with a little help of foreign languages, word by word…”

“We’d be stuck in botanist’s mind.”

This time Tintin actually chuckled. “Do you happen to know how is sunflower called in French?” He tapped on the lid of the dial.

“Tournesol,” realised Archibald. “The year Sunflower was planted must mean the foundation of the Tournesol Factory.”

Tintin nodded. “1894.”

“But what ‘bout the rose? They’re not producing anything remotely similar, they’re machinists.”

“Notice that only the Sunflower was written with the capital letter. So, let me rephrase it for you: a- _rose_ of the Sunflower?”

Captain moaned. “Oh, that’s… that’s so **dumb!** ”

Tintin grinned. “I say, it’s pretty neat. Hidden in a plain view.”

“So,” Archibald scratched his beard, “1907, the presentation of the amphibian which landed Tournesol the army contract? Been there, seen that. Was quite a show, I tell yer.”

“Mmm,” agreed the reporter. “Now, if you take 1907 from 1894, you’ll get…?”

“Minus 13.”

Both in unison stated: “Unlucky count.”

“So far so good, mister reporter. But what about the second part? How was that?”

“The principle of the apple fall made public, of four individuals.”

“Hmm, could individuals mean digits? Another date then, perhaps.”

“I agree. Say, what is the most famous story about a falling apple?”

“Why, that would be…” Captain facepalmed. “Newton. That book with the theory of gravity: The Principle of something.”

“The Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy,” corrected Tintin, “published in 1687.”

“Yer a downright walking encyclopaedia, aren’t yer?”

“I try to remember anything that might prove useful. Now, if we add individual numbers of the date, we’ll get the number 22. And I suppose I need a code of 4 digits, am I right?”

Captain nodded. “1322. That’s a really convincing theory, lad,” admitted Captain, “but what if yer’s basic assumption is wrong?”

“Well,” Tintin shrugged his shoulders and then calmly spun the dial to enter the numbers. “Life is too short to never take a risk.”

Captain’s heart practically stopped. He held his breath, eyes frantically searched the deck of their lifeboat for something to shield them had the lad’s reasoning been wrong. But alas, he found nothing. He decided to throw the casing overboard, the mystery inside be damned, better unknowing than dead.

But just as he rose to his feet to put his thoughts into actions, the casing opened with a barely audible click, releasing the latch on one of the shorter sides and thus ejecting the inner box.

“Right assumption,” stated Tintin smugly.

“ ** _D’yer wanna cause mae a heart attack?!_** ” Captain clutched his chest and released a shaky breath.

“Certainly not.” Tintin smiled at him sheepishly. “I have no idea how to navigate a ship.”

Haddock snorted in disbelief, but upon seeing the smirk on his young companion’s lips he laughed out loud. “Yer concern is heart-touching. Or more likely heart- _aching_.”

The ginger moaned inwardly at the bad pun and opened the inner box of the casing. It was stacked full of neatly folded documents.

Tintin grabbed a few papers, flipping through them, so Captain did the same.

“These are blueprints,” stated the journalist thoughtfully.

“And what blueprints,” affirmed Haddock. “Airship, steamboat, yacht, a real beauty, I tell yer, one-seat self-propelling vehicle, Great Above, no one would get mae on such a thing, submersible… vacuum cleaner? That’s quite a range.”

Tintin chuckled. “From war machines to domestic appliances?”

“And everything in between.”

“Apparently. But, look, Captain, seems like they were all designed by the same man.” Tintin tapped his finger on the signature in the lower-left corner.

Haddock tried to decipher the barely legible signature. “C. Calalus. Nah, Calculus. _Cuthbert Calculus_?” Archibald looked at Tintin with a quizzical expression. “ _That_ Calculus? The chief-engineer of Tournesol? Who could’ve sent yer these?”

Tintin tapped his finger against his lips, deep in thoughts. “That is not the right question, Captain. Who else than professor Calculus _himself_ would be able to send me his lifelong work?”

“Supposing yer right, _why_ would he do such a thing?”

“ _Why indeed_.”


	10. The Science of Deduction

#### 12th of July 1932, Brussels, Republiek der Nederlanden

Truth to be told, it didn’t surprise Wiggins.

It disturbed him, it definitely did, but if he had to be genuinely honest, he had been expecting something like this to happen, for quite a long time actually.

With calmness he didn’t know he posses he cautiously checked the ransacked flat. Not a single room was spared, but the worst of damage happened in the study – books were thrown out of the bookcase, files and folders full of articles and copied pages of expensive encyclopaedias, once sorted alphabetically, were now scattered all around, the drawers from desk pulled out, their contents emptied on a heap in the middle of the room. The frantic search must have then continued to the bedroom, clothes were thrown out of wardrobe onto a pile on the bed, the pillow was stripped and opened, it’s stuffing pulled out, and the bed was moved aside. On the contrary, the living room was barely disturbed, cabinets and cupboards, even the refrigerator opened and searched through. Quite surprisingly, nothing was actually broken. The mantelpiece clock still ticked softly, steadily measuring away what was left of the day, uncaring for the mayhem around.

But, and Wiggins thanked the Above for that, no sight of the flat’s rightful owner, nor his lifeless body, to be found.

He didn’t bother to close the door of the flat behind himself, he left them wide-open. Slowly, he descended the stairs and knocked on the landlady’s door, still unsure how to break it to her.

Mrs Finch opened within a minute. “All done, young man? Did you left him a message?”

“Um, ma’am,” here Wiggins hesitated. He shuffled his feet and tugged at his waistcoat. Then he opted for the direct frontal attack and a frantic prayer that she is not prone to hysteria. “I’m afraid we will have to call the police. Tintin’s flat had been broken into.”

Mrs Finch didn’t look surprised at all. “ _Again?_ ”

* * *

#### 13th of July 1932, Brussels, Republiek der Nederlanden

Despite the early hours of the morning of yet another hot day, the office of ICPC headquarters in Brussels had been steadfastly busy – plain-clothed detectives and uniformed low-ranked officers were despairing over one case or the other. Some of them leaving after tedious overnight shift; some heading to work early, bursting with confidence that they would be able to catch with their workload. A bleary-eyed chief-investigator in charge of the pickpocket spree had been making a sizeable pot of coffee for his equally bleary-eyed subordinates in wild hope of getting anything reasonable out of them during their forthcoming conference, which was unadvisedly planned at 7 o’clock in the morning.

Thompson was sitting opposite Thomson at their desk, sorting through newest evidence in the forger case. Their coats, as well as their bowler hats, had been hanged at the sturdy, wooden coat hanger near the doors, their sleeves had been rolled up and both of them had donned pristine white gloves for handling sensitive evidence. They were carefully checking and rechecking every banknote from the pile of forgeries between them.

The elusive forger, already a master craftsman from the very beginning when he flooded the streets with his creations, was getting even better.

The telephone, an old-fashioned model made from ebony and brass, started to ring.

“The telephone is ringing,” stated Thompson after a while, not even bothering to look up from his work.

“Most observant deduction,” replied his colleague, and he too did not bother to look up. “I can certainly heart it.”

“Then why don’t you pick it up?”

“Don’t you see I’m busy? Why don’t _you_ pick it up?”

“I am busy, don’t you see?”

The telephone kept persistently ringing.

Thomson was the one who gave up after a while. “All right, I’ll get it,” he took his white gloves off. “But next time, it will be your turn.” He picked up the receiver. “International Criminal Police Commission, Brussels Headquarters. Thomson, without a P, as in Timbuktu, speaking. May I be of any assistance? _Tintin?!_ ” he cried out delightedly.

Thompson threw his gloves away in breakneck haste, his abrupt movement caused the banknotes to briefly flutter into the air only to land haphazardly all around their desk, and attempted to steal the earpiece from his colleague. After a small struggle, they ended up side by side, heads pressed together, earpiece wedged between them, so they both could listen and talk at the same time.

“Good God, boy, we were worried about you!” they exclaimed in unison.

“Are you uninjured?” asked one.

“Aren’t you injured?” asked the other.

After hearing Tintin’s muffled answer contradicting their worst worries, they calmed down a little, just enough to start with their trademarked mixture of interrogation and newsreel. “What did you got yourself into this time?” “Your editor reported you missing.” “Do you need our help?” “Still no arrest.” “Oh, and your flat had been ransacked.”

To confirm the reporter’s astonished outburst, both detectives bowed their head in a fluid motion, as if they were one person, not realising that Tintin couldn’t see them.

“We are afraid that this is exactly what had happened.”

“To be precise, that is exactly why we are afraid.”

“But anyway,” started Thompson. “Where are you?” finished Thomson. “Should we pick you up?”

“ _In Calais?_ ” both of them asked in disbelief. “How did you get to the English continental coast?”

They both fell silent and listened with attention to Tintin’s compressed recounting of the past three days. “But we didn’t found the slightest traces of opium on board,” they objected. “Cargo hold 13?” “Secret stash? _Great Scotland Yard!_ ” “We must alert our colleagues in Dover at once.”

And yet, though a smuggler ship could _hypothetically_ disappear on the open sea without a trace, Tintin would _certainly_ rush away any minute, so the detective duo kept asking, trying to obtain as many details as possible. “But, more importantly, who is there with you?” “Captain?” Thomson looked at Thompson, who shrugged his shoulder, indicating that neither he is none the wiser whom Tintin meant.

Tintin’s explanation did nothing to ease their worries. “ _Archibald Haddock?_ But, is he not” “involved in that whole sordid affair?” They listened attentively, for anyone who tries to hurt their unofficial apprentice would experience the unleashed wrath of the justice. “Very well. If you say so.” “We will see to it.” “Do you need anything else?”

Upon hearing the reporter’s request Detectives looked at each other, speechless with astonishment.

“Tintin, you must be a clairvoyant.”

“To be precise, you must be a clairvoyant.”

“Professor Cuthbert Calculus, the chief-engineer of Tournesol Factory” “had been kidnapped three days ago.”

* * *

#### 13th of July 1932, Calais, The United Kingdom of Great Britain, Ireland and eastern coasts of Europe

“Calm down, will yer, laddie?”

But Tintin simply could not. Since the telephone call with Thom(p)sons he had been pacing to and fro, wearing down the already threadbare excuse of a carpet between two narrow and squeaky beds in the tiny room he and Captain Haddock rented in a harbour hostel. He had been attempting to sort out his befuddled thoughts, mumbling occasionally, not exactly to himself, but neither to Milou nor Archibald.

Archibald sat on one of the beds, smoking a cigarette of the cheapest brand. He would kill for a proper pipe, but buying such a thing with so little cash they have on themselves would be an outright squander.

Captain didn’t want to be caught staring, their situation was already awkward, and yet, he can’t help but furtively observe the pacing journalist.

Ginger hair, green eyes and _young. Too_ young, it seemed in the daylight. But who is Archibald do judge? He has seen them all, during the first years of the War, younglings who added a year or two to their legal age out of enthusiasm and foolish national pride, ready to defend their home and country, ready to become heroes, only to bitterly regret that decision afterwards.

Too young to regard Kierkeggard’s theses on humanity as anything else than mere depressed thoughts, not as an opinion of a man well aware of the harshness of the world. Too young to casually request and actually acquire assistance from ICPC detectives.

Almost too young to be in the big dangerous world all on his own.

Milou, well aware of Tintin’s habits, made himself comfortable on the other bed, safely out of the way of his pacing master.

“I just don’t get it!” the ginger reporter burst out. He turned to Archibald and started to point on his fingers. “Why would professor Calculus send me all of his blueprints? His lifelong work! And why would he choose such a peculiar way of sending them? Who could have kidnapped him? Why for? How could he possibly know he is going to be kidnapped? It doesn’t make any sense!” Tintin threw his hands up in exasperation and toppled down on his bed, the sudden force of his weight caused his automaton dog to bounce off the mattress. Milou gave Tintin a peeved look and leapt over to the other bed, nesting next to Captain.

“Lad, life sometimes makes no sense at all, we’re not in a mystery novel.[3]”

“Mystery novel?” repeated Tintin contemplatively, looking dully at the ceiling.

“Yer simply ask way too many questions.”

“I am reporter, asking questions is my job.” retorted Tintin half-heartedly. He waved his companions silent, his mind working furiously, picking up a barely tangible thread of an idea. _Something the sailor just said… A mystery novel – far-fetched plotline, the most improbable turns of events and wild deduction leaps… Very well then. Who would profit most from the fall of Tournesol Factory? Who has the motive and the resources to kidnap a worldwide famous engineer?_

“Oh.” Tintin sat up abruptly. “ _Of course!_ ”

Archibald scarcely avoided swallowing his cigarette, startled by this sudden outburst.

“That’s it! That _must_ be it!”

“What?!”

Tintin jumped off the bed and grabbed Archibald by arms, his eyes shining with zeal. “I have to go to Malbork!”

“ _M-Malbork?!_ ” Captain’s voice faltered out of shock.

But Tintin already rushed out of the room. “Hurry!” he shouted from the corridor.

Archibald shared a flabbergasted look with Milou, as if one of them could pinpoint the reason behind the ginger’s sudden determination.

“Tintin!” Captain bellowed out of the opened door. “Thundering typhoons, lad, yer a piece of devil’s luck,” he muttered to himself, grabbing his cap and followed after the journalist, the automaton dog at his heels. “It’s across the whole of Europe, d’yer realise that?! Tintin? The travel office doesn’t even open before nine! Wait a little, for Columbus sake! _Tintin!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3Merely in a poorly written fanfiction… [return to text]


	11. High in the Sky

#### 13th of July 1932, Malbork, Königreich Preußen

“ _ **You still don’t have it?!**_ ” Spalding yelled into the brass and mahogany earpiece of the latest model of telephone.

His office on the top floor of the watchtower provided a perfect view above all of the complex of the old red-brick castle. Once a proud fortress of The Order of Teutonic Knights, the lookout of the Prussian Kingdom, was used as barracks and arsenal, even as a field hospital during the War. After its end, it was rebuilt into the main workshop of Müller Stahlwerk. But the view was the last thing Spalding had been concerned with.

“I don’t care what would you have to do to that _confounded_ scribbler, but bring that damned casing to me already! Or I’ll feed you to the gorillas! Understood?” He slammed the earpiece back to cradle.

He rubbed his nape and groaned. Why, _oh why_ , he cannot rely on _any_ of his underlings? Why does he have to do _every little bloody thing_ by himself, yet again?

Dealing with that obtuse professor included.

* * *

#### 13th of July 1932, Karaboudjan, open waters

“ _ **DIAVOLO!!!**_ ” rumbled through the thick door of the radio room.

Tom barely raised his eyebrows. The Boss was not pleased to hear about Haddock’s escape, to no surprise. One loose link can break the whole chain, or however the saying goes.

Could Haddock navigate a lifeboat to shore, without proper tools and with an inexperienced landlubber to take care of?

Tom did not doubt that. Archibald Haddock may be an old drunkard and a broken man, but he was still great sailor to boot.

Could that young Yardie (as Tom hailed from Britain, every copper ever would be a Yardie to him) alert his colleagues? Could they all be arrested?

He heard Allan’s muttered apologies and promises to deal with the mess of a situation.

They had fugitives on the loose for God only know how long. Each of them on his own knew too much, but together…

Looks like Karaboudjan caught the bad luck from her captain.

* * *

#### 13th of July 1932, dirigible Sirius, French aerial territory

Archibald Haddock, retired officer of _The Royal Army of The United Kingdom of Great Britain, Ireland and eastern coasts of Europe_ , haven’t been exactly sure how he got himself into such a situation.

Following a lad he barely knows all the way to the Prussian Kingdom on a hunch.

But it’s not like he had anything else to do. Not until the arrest of his mutinous crew in Dover. Supposing that they hadn’t been alarmed by his escape and didn’t change their course of action.

Sirius, the latest model of a passenger-carrying rigid airship, the most modest vessel in K33 class, was still exorbitantly luxurious cruiser. Even though it stopped at every big airport along its way, it was the fastest means of travel to Prussia. Tintin acquired the tickets with ease and discount, working with the ICPC apparently have certain advantages. But still, Captain had the feeling he now owes leg and soul to that young reporter.

The reception room on observatory deck, furnished with leather-coated armchairs, rosewood coffee-tables and heavy satin curtains, offered breathtaking view through the glassed-in wall. Opposite the lookout a majestic mahogany bar was stationed, adorned with soft nacre intarsia and brass ornaments polished to high shine. Captain wanted to order a stiff whisky, or a pint of rum like a true sailor he was, but the mental image of Tintin’s thin disproving frown forestalled him. He opted for some weak sparkling wine instead, grabbing a plate of artistically arranged _hors d’oeuvres_ as an afterthought, and retreated to a secluded sitting near the window.

Archibald idly observed the unending darkness behind the glass. They were flying over Reims, therefore all the lights were switched off, out of reverence. The dark hole where the city once was sharply distinct due to bright lights of human’s dwellings all around. Haddock had been in Reims long before the War. In his hazy memories streets of old houses with fancy façades and full of life still stand proud. But in the harsh reality, the whole city turned to ash, destroyed and abandoned.

Solemn memorial of the ruthlessness of the War.

A reflection of an incoming person appeared on the glassed-in wall, fiery ginger hair turned dull copper in the dim light of the stars outside, a canine companion faithfully trotting by his side. The boy stopped next to Captain, the dog automaton setting himself down on the floor next to the coffee table.

For a while they just observed the darkness beneath.

“Done with your homework?” Archibald could no longer bear the heavy silence. It reminded him of the expectations before the battle, of the way the Death’s breath carried across the waters before the first gunshot.

“Believe it or not,” Tintin sat down, pulling the plate of canapés towards himself, “this late in the evening everyone at Interpol seems to be fast asleep.”

“Late in the evening? Laddie, it’s already night.”

“The best time to work. No interruptions whatsoever.”

“Had somebody said yer that yer a workaholic?”

Tintin shrugged his shoulders. “A few times.”

“Figures.”

They fall into a comfortable silence, unitedly disposing of the rest of the food.

“You served?” Tintin asked, his unending curiosity getting better of him once again.

Captain snorted. “I dinnae earned mae stripes just for sitting in the office.” _And my nightmares as well_ went unsaid. “Only on sea, lad. And that was more than enough.” Archibald rubbed at his left side absentmindedly.

Tintin, observant as was his lot, noticed the gesture, mentally noting to ask about it at a first suitable opportunity.

“But enough ‘bout mae, I betcha yer read mae file through and through. Out with the plan, laddie.”

“Your evasive tactic left much to desire.”

“It works nevertheless. So?”

“Do you know the competitive factory of Tournesol’s?” Tintin polished Milou’s muzzle.

“Müller Stahlwerk.”

The journalist snapped his fingers in agreement. “Natürlich.”

Archibald contemplated, switching to German without a second thought: “So? Wie könnte es verbunden sein?”

Tintin blinked in surprise. “I’d love to carry this conversation, Captain, unfortunately, my knowledge of German is not on par.”

“Thanks Above,” Haddock outright grinned. “I was actually starting to get worried yer are some sort of _übermensh_.”

“Oh no, _please_.” The reporter raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Not Nietze again.”

Captain chuckled. “Allow mae to rephrase then, mister reporter. What makes yer think Müller’s connected to this?”

“It meshes together.” The ginger jabbed his index finger to the air between them. “Who else would risk kidnapping a famous engineer in the middle of the street in broad daylight?”

“Lunatic?”

Tintin laughed aloud and patted Milou.

“Yer deductions are… like, straight outta mystery novel.”

“Thanks to you.”

“Yer welcome.”

They shared a look, both barely managing to retain serious faces.

“So, we gonnae run ‘round the town, searching for whereabouts of a kidnapped professor who might not be even there?”

“Alas, I’m afraid not, dear Captain.” Tintin purposefully waited till Haddock took a sip of his drink before leaning towards. “I would need to sneak into the Malbork Castle,” he whispered conspiratorially.

Archibald, much to Tintin’s pleasant surprise, calmly swallowed, casting a calculating look at the ginger. “Right. I’d be lying if I say I didn’t expect something outrageous, but let mae tell one thing: _I’m not drunk enough for this_.”


	12. Nightmares of Sunflower

#### 14th of July 1932, dirigible Sirius, German aerial territory

Death herself must have been walking on this battlefield. It was her dance floor, her domain, where she welcomes with open arms each and every lost soul.

She was humming an old lullaby. Her dress tailored from razor-thin copper plates that clung around her beautiful body like the finest silk sliced through skin and flesh and bones with ease as she walked over the corpses littering the ground, as she crushed man after man underneath her feet.

She stopped, the selvedge of her dress stained with fresh blood, and slowly turned to Archibald.

Her skin pale, pale like a corpse.

Her hair jet-black tar and greasy grime, swirling in non-existing wind like seaweeds in torrent.

Her lips blood-red and her smile gentle, gentle like a loving mother gazing upon her favourite child.

Her eyes dried sunflowers, contorted petals of eyelashes framing the hollows of pecked-out seeds.

The air was filled with a thick fog of steam and the unmistakable taste of gunpowder and blood. Heavy puffing of engines shouted down all other noises, all the wails of injured ones, all the yelled orders.

He could barely recognize silhouettes of others around him, his vision blurry. His eyes were crying, and he could not distinguish anymore whether the tears were from desperation or from acrid dust.

He was tired. He wished to give up, just lie down and die, be at peace finally.

The harrowing cacophony of sounds dissipated in a high-pitched screech of a nearby machine. The boilers shuddered and shook, the etched sunflower on the front-plate pranced in mortal spasm. For a terrible eternity of a moment it stilled, and then red-hot distorted components, sharp-edged copper plates and scorching steam burst to all directions in an earsplitting explosion.

Pain.

Screams.

Pain.

Moans.

PAIN.

The sickly-sweet smell of scalded skin.

_Searing pain_ in his left side, as she gracefully embraced him, sinking her sharp nails into his body.

He cried out, lunging away, away, _away_ from her, only to lost his footing on the pile of listless limbs. He felt the fall in the pit of his stomach, the core of his soul – the unending descend into the jet-black darkness of despair.

He landed with a cry and a thump on the cold floor.

His body ached and his eyes shot open. For a while he didn’t know where he was, but then he remembered. War’s end, acquiring of Karaboudjan, years of solitude and memories drowned in whisky, canned opium, that lithe ginger with a queer name and an automaton dog.

They were on way to Malbork because some crazy engineer had been kidnapped.

“ _Capitaine?_ ” Tintin asked sleepily, his ginger quiff peeking from the upper bunk, next to the quizzically tilted head of the copper canine.

Archibald just closed his eyes again, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill out, and shook his head. “I need a drink,” he whispered hoarsely, reluctant to trust own voice.

The ginger reporter blinked drowsily at the timepiece. The fluorescent paintwork on clock-hands dimly illuminated the darkness, revealing it was almost 2 o’clock in the morning. The night was silent, except for the soft sough of the wind outside and the bone-deep hum of the powerful engines.

Tintin slid down from his bunk. Last evening he was so tired from all the phone calls, dealings and promises, that he barely crawled to the bed. He opted for the upper bunk, much to Milo’s chagrin, as Tintin had to hoist his automaton up, so his faithful companion could settle in his favourite resting space at his feet. Now he folded his legs, assuming a tailor’s seat next to the sprawled sailor, suppressing a yawn.

The silence between them seemed taut and expectant, stretching like molasses.

Archibald could feel his heartbeat reluctantly returning to normal as Tintin waited patiently. Despite his young age, the ginger knew that some scars are simply just too big or cut too deep. And Archibald Haddock seemed like a man who, rather than talking about his problems, bottles own demons up in vials made from lead glass, fragile and yet so heavy that they sink into the bottom of one’s soul; and then attempts to drown them in a steadfast flood of alcohol.

Milou decided he had had enough being out of the picture. He jumped down from the bunk, landing straight onto his master’s lap, earning a pained outtake of breath as a reward.

Captain snorted in amusement. “Rather clingy, ain’t he?”

Tintin grimaced, suffering in stoic silence, his automaton not exactly a lightweight. “You have _no idea_. I have to lock myself in the bathroom if I want to be there alone.”

That drove a loud laugh out of Captain. Milou decided to investigate the mysterious rumbling noise and promptly stomped all over Archibald, wagging his tail and puffing excitedly, causing him to laugh even more.

“Traitor.” Tintin pouted at his dog, massaging the sore spots caused by Milou’s landing. An amused smile settled on his face as he observed the spectacle in front of him. “He took a liking in you.”

Captain idly polished the automaton’s ear. “Well, lucky mae.”

Lucky him indeed.

If it hadn’t been for those two, this impossible journalist and his canine companion, the remnants of his days on this world would be grim and short.

Given how the things were, it still might be short. But at least it would be interesting. For, you see, Archibald had to admit that, despite the lingering dread from the vivid nightmare, despite the insane task ahead of them, despite the constant dull pain in his side, right now he feels more alive than he felt in years.


	13. Plans and Preparations

#### 15th of July 1932, Malbork, Königreich Preußen

“ _Please!_ ” Spalding begged out of pure desperation, _this_ close to smacking his head to the table. Or better yet, to strangle the obstinate engineer.

“ _Grease?_ What do you mean by this, young man?” Cuthbert smoothened his moustache with his fingers, a perplexed expression on his face. “Why won’t you simply tell me what do you want from me?”

The cunning secretary could hardly believe that this confused old goat is indeed the brilliant mastermind who managed to lead his men astray for _days_. Really, it must have been a mere coincidence that professor Calculus departed for his haphazard travels exactly at the same time they decided to, hm, _recruit_ his services. After all, the genius of the mind is oftentimes redeemed by absolute ineptitude in mundane life.

It might have been just a stroke of bad luck that the valuable blueprints ended up in hands of that nosy young reporter. _Really bad luck_ for that wretched scribbler.

A cold smile slowly crept on Spalding’s lips. “Really, Herr Professor, you leave me with no other option.” He stood up and adjusted his pristine suit, brushing away imaginary speckles od dust. He beckoned Cuthbert to follow him. “It’s said that seeing is believing. So, allow me to show you the Müller Stahlwerk’s _masterpiece_.”

* * *

#### 16th of July 1932, Berlin, Deutsches Reich

Captain thumped his foot in the rhythm of an old sea shanty, drawing on the cheap pipe he bought. Luckily, his very traditional bank had a branch even here, in the depths of Imperial Germany. He was able to acquire some spare clothes and some necessary provisions, a pipe along with strong tobacco. Then he spent a longer time than he probably ought to in an _argument_ with his inner demons. He thirsted for a sip of whiskey, a single drop could hardly do any harm, could it? And yet, there was nagging on the back of his mind, a voice with surprising French tint that kept advising him to withstand the siren’s song of the bottle. He managed, chain-smoking pipe after pipe to subdue the appetite for alcohol.

Upon arriving in Berlin, he and Tintin separated for the sake of dealing with personal matters, agreeing on meeting at Lehrter Bahnhof. The plan was to catch the penultimate train of the day leaving to the Prussian Kingdom.

The train was bound to depart in less than five minutes and no traces of the ginger quiff nor the dog automaton were to be found on the whole railroad station. Lehrter Bahnhof was a majestic building projected in the Neo-Renaissance style, grand and ornate. The glassed-in barrel vault roof supported by steel pillars allowed the daylight to overlook the hustle and bustle of mankind tenaciously travelling towards their destinations.

Archibald glanced for the umpteenth time at the piling timepiece at the end of the platform. It was a pretty piece of Art Noveau forged from the coal-black alloy beloved by late Victorian architects, all curls and swirls and squiggles of floral motives. Woman figures of waving lines supported the clockface that relentlessly counted away the minutes. Captain puffed on the pipe, contemplating whether he should unload his meagre suitcase from the compartment he commandeered.

He stopped contemplating the reason why he still continued to accompany that ginger devil of a landlubber days ago.

He decided to unload the luggage after all. Missing this train would throw a wrench to Tintin’s plan to arrive unnoticed amongst steelworkers assembling for their run. But since the lad was not here, there was nothing Archibald could do.

Tentative tendrils of worry were slowly seizing his heart. He decided to raise hell if necessary, in the case that ginger would not show up by the time of the next train.

He was stepping out of the carriage when he noticed the commotion – the heavily puffing dog automaton making a way through the crowd so his master could hurry in his wake.

“ _Right_ ,” Archibald snorted in amusement, shaking his head. He put the luggage down, shoving it back into the carriage aisle with his foot, and blocked the door open with his figure. He smiled apologetically at the train guard patrolling along the carriages, nodding towards his rushing companions. The guard rolled his eyes and waited resignedly for the latecomers.

The copper canine gracefully hopped into the carriage as Captain dragged the out of breath journalist on board, stabilising him when the train set off with a shrill whistle of the locomotive.

“Is this how yer tackle yer deadlines?” smirked Archibald.

“Oh, _please_ ,” Tintin heaved, gasping for breath. He bent forward, propping himself against his knees, wondering whether he left his lungs in the city. “You are… worse… than my… editor.”

* * *

#### 16th of July 1932, somewhere in Europe

“Thompson?”

“Yes, Thomson?”

“Where, by Great Scotland Yard, are we?”

The detective in question looked around the small station. The place had seen a better time, long, _looong_ time ago. So long ago it might now not even remember how that proverbial better time looked like.

No living soul in sight, except for a tomcat who decided that this silent, sun-warm spot was the best place for a thorough hygiene session. Contorted in a position known only to cats, one rear leg high in the air and the tip of his tongue peeking out, he swayed to and fro, observing the intruders of his territory with mistrust.

“Well, Thomson,”

“Yes, Thompson?”

“I think that it will be safe to assume that we are in Prussia.”

* * *

#### 16th of July 1932, Kaiser Friedrich Express, German railroad tracks near Prussian borders

The dusk was slowly setting on the landscape whizzing along the train window. The Interstate Express left the industrialised outskirts of Berlin far behind, now travelling through picturesque countryside full of quaint small villages, fields and forests. Ash-grey smoke trailing in its wake, it rushed along the railroad tracks that crossed the whole of Europe like embossed scars of technical progress.

The massive locomotive hauling the express named after one of the most prominent Prussian rulers was Müller Stahlwerk's worthful pattern and main export article. The heavy industry with the steelworks in the lead helped resurrect the economy of the war-devastated country, establishing it as one of the best machinists in the world.

The three occupants of the compartment maintained comfortable silence. Captain was observing the view from the window, smoking his pipe. Milou laid sprawled on the bench next to him, head resting on Archibald’s thigh. Captain wondered whether the dog automaton was so fond of him because of the glass of fancy whiskey he fuelled him with onboard Sirius, not wanting Tintin to catch him drinking. The aforementioned journalist sat across them, rummaging through his notepad, occasionally scribbling a note into it.

The daylight completely dissipated and so did Captain’s patience: “Would’cher tell mae already why d’yer almost missed the train?”

Tintin clapped the notepad shut. “It took longer than expected,” he admitted. “Milou.”

The dog automaton raised his head.

“The hide, please.”

The copper canine rolled over and Tintin slid open his stomach plate. Next to Tournesol casing an ancient tome was nestled.

“Yer’s light reading before beauty sleep?”

“Ugh, no,” Tintin extracted the heavy book. Gilded letters on the front desk of the tome stated: _Führer der Burgen, Schlossen und Festungen des Preußischen Königreichs_ in such a decorative script that even Archibald had a problem reading it. “I’m struggling with regular German, let alone the medieval parlance.” He shoved the book into Captain’s arms without scruples, out of fear he might have dropped it otherwise. “Behold, the one and only Guide of castles and forts of Prussian Kingdom.”

Captain whistled and settled the tome onto his knees, leafing through the pages. “So, yer decided to study the life and housing of bygone Prussian aristocracy, huh?”

“Just one housing in particular,” smirked Tintin, seating himself on the edge of the bench opposite Captain. “Page 583.”

Archibald turned to said page. A roguish smile spread across his features.

“This,” Tintin tapped on the scheme, “is the only public-available floorplan of Malbork Castle.”

“I’d tip mae hat to yer, laddie, if I hadn’t been holding such a heavy book. Alas! It’s several _centuries_ outdated.”

“A minor complication,” the ginger journalist shrugged his shoulders. “Even if they rebuilt excessively, some things must have remained the same.”

“Right yer are,” agreed Captain. He traced his finger on the floorplan. “The alignment of buildings, drainages and air-vents, hallways, those’re bound to remain in the same place.”

“And,” Tintin shuffled even closer so that he and Captain shared the weight of the tome on their knees, tapping on points of interest, “we can safely assume that stand-alone utility houses would have been turned either to workrooms or employees’ housings, canteens and such.”

Archibald nodded. “Makes sense.”

“The library in the main building would be the most likely place for the archives. If any evidence were to be found, it would be likely in there. I’d need to look around it.”

“Hold yer horses, laddie. A regular archive would only hold a bunch of blueprints and schemes, not any incriminating evidence. That’s more likely to be found in the secretary’s office,” Captain thought aloud. “Frankly,” he thrummed his fingers on the plan, “ _ **I**_ ’d turn the main building into offices and management suites, visitor’s lounges and showrooms. That’s also where I’d hide a kidnapped professor.”

“Not in a cell in the cellar?” asked Tintin with feigned disappointment.

“Nay,” chuckled Captain. “I know that’d be more along the lines of yers mystery novel, but I’d wager those are now engine rooms, maybe experimental workrooms. Someone would have noticed an unwilling captive there.”

“Good point,” agreed the ginger. “Well then, the main building it is.”

“Aye,” conceded Archibald. “Well, this is all nice and easy, but how do we actually get _inside_ the Castle?”

“Trust me,” Tintin smiled. “I have a plan.”


	14. Breaking and Entering

#### 16th of July 1932, Malbork, Königreich Preußen

The mind of an engineer is an intricate mechanism.

Cogwheels of countless plans and half-concocted schemes and vague shapes of not-yet-build gadgets relentlessly whirling. The train of thoughts trailing after the faint tendrils of barely put-together ideas. A beehive, a depot, a workroom cluttered with so many spare parts prolapsing out of their racks that no outsider ever could decode the system behind it. A well-oiled, never-stopping machine.

Cuthbert Calculus generally welcomed insomnia while working on various projects over the years, but staying awake long into the night while in captivity seemed counterproductive. Oh, he had been provided with all the blueprints and the schemes, the piles of papers of intricate calculations, but he hadn’t even looked at them.

Yesterday, desperate to make him understand, his captors showed him round the workroom, presenting the devices their late chief-engineer designed, including the Crab – the masterpiece of Müller Stahlwerk as Spalding dubbed it. Calculus couldn’t deny the morbid fascination that piece of machinery invoked in him. As an engineer, he had to bow to the genius that contrived such a gruesome machine.

After the War, after the battlefields had been abandoned and the dead had been counted, Cuthbert decided to atone, to redeem his sins, swearing to never again projecting machines of mass destruction. And yet, _yet_ , it would be so _easy_ to forego the humane limitations, to invent without restrictions again, to finish and improve the automaton. His mind already provided several possible solutions on how to tackle the problems the Crab suffered from.

The mind of an engineer is a terrifying place.

* * *

#### 18th of July 1932, Malbork, Königreich Preußen

“Lad, yer know that I donnae have any particular interest of getting maeself killed, right?”

“Come on, Captain. This will be fun.”

“ _FUN?!_ ”

“Shh! Keep your voice down.”

“’kay. But yer have a pretty strange notion of _fun_ , yer know.”

The clock tower on the castle grounds revealed a few minutes after midnight. A night guard walked lazily along the battlements in regular interval, more in an attempt to not fall asleep than actually patrolling. The majestic ramparts provided deep shadows, deep enough to fully obscure three figures with not exactly legal intentions. The dampness of the river seeped deep into their bones, but the rush of adrenaline in their veins urged them forward.

“We’re gonnae _raid_ the most protected castle in all Preußen and there’s only two of us.”

The gear grinding that followed this statement sounded surprisingly like an aggrieved dog’s growl.

“Sorry,” Captain patted the copper canine. “ _Three_ of us.”

Tintin looked at his self-appointed partner in crime with amusement. “Are you holding a conversation with my automaton?”

“Yer do it all the time,” Archibald shrugged his shoulders.

They stared at each other for a moment and then they burst out laughing, trying hard to stifle the sound. Archibald bit his fist while Tintin breathed to the hollow of his hands.

“You really do not need to accompany me.” Less than more calmed, Tintin started to unscrew Milou’s tail.

“Yer kidding? I always dreamed of raiding a castle.”

“It is called breaking and entering.”

“Great to know what we’re doing. D’yer happen to know the penalty rate for it as well?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, how could I know the criminal charges of Prussian Kingdom?” Tintin contemplated his knowledge of the law. “But in Netherland, that ought to be 2 to 3 years.”

Another round of stifled giggles.

“We’re _twisted_.”

“So it seems.” The ginger wiped away the tear of laughter that prickled in the corner of his eye. “We just need to sneak in, find the evidence, find the professor and sneak out unnoticed. Nothing could possibly go wrong.”

“ _Right_ ,” smirked Captain. “I’ll remind yer those exact words in about, hmmm, two and a half hours.”

Not having anything better to do, or rather, not having anything to do _at all_ , Cuthbert fumbled with his talisman – self-made brass pendulum. The pendulum science was considered to be a pseudo-science at best, nevertheless, it proved useful to him more than once.

The reaction of the pendulum was surprising – the spherical piece of brass twitched and trembled as if trying to tear away from its chain. Looking from the window the serenity of the night, the soft darkness covering this heavily industrialized part of Prussia, was unobscured.

“By the pricking of my thumbs,” Cuthbert smoothened his moustache, intrigued, “something wicked this way comes?”

Archibald was no more surprised by the useful gadgets Milou hid underneath his copper casing, but Tintin’s skill in entering uninvited had taken him a little aback.

“Sooo,” he asked after they overcame the ramparts without a hitch and slipped unnoticed into the main building, “d’yer do this often?”

Tintin was fiddling with a lock of the doors leading to what used to be a banqueting hall. Turned to administrative office organised not unlike a newspaper agency – rows and rows of cubicles made from hardwood, brass and glass were overlooked by a fancy workstation at the gallery with carved balustrade. He was using the burglar kit in Milou’s front paw, the automaton dog waiting patiently by his feet. “Actually, _yes_ ,” he admitted. “Yes, I do.”

“Thought yer a reporter, not a thief.”

“I am an _investigative_ journalist.”

 _Served on a silver plate, really._ Captain smirked. “That’s a polo-shirt yer wearing, not a vest.”

Tintin groaned. Nevertheless, a smile was plastered on his face. Bad puns and bottles of rum, that’s what sailors are made of[4] apparently.

The lock clicked and the door creaked open with a wailing screech of unoiled hinges. They both froze, sharing a pained, guilty look, straining their ears for a guard roused by the unpleasant sound.

The castle remained silent.

“After you,” gestured the vest-less journalist.

“Yer a true gentleman.”

Captain slipped in while Tintin screwed Milou’s paw back. The automaton then hopped silently into the chamber as his master closed the door behind them.

“What now? And please tell mae yer actually planned _beyond_ this point.”

“Well,” Tintin shrugged, “ _vaguely_.”

“ _Right._ ” Archibald looked around the cubicles. “I’ll take the left side.”

Seemingly agreeing on working for his captors, Cuthbert tinkered with the Crab all of yesterday. But he needed to do more than he could risk under the constant surveillance of Spalding’s underlings. He needed to do proper, full-fledged sabotage.

According to his pendulum, now would be the best time to deal with that ominous machine.

He resolutely put on his hat and buttoned up his coat. He flung the doors of his gilded cage open. His eyebrows shot up in surprise at the unconscious figure of a guard laying at his threshold. Right finger raised in admonishment, left hand on his hip, Cuthbert tutted and offered a piece of invaluable life advice: “Young man, if you are on guard, you should better pay attention even to your back.”

After the third set of documents Tintin fetched to him for translation, Captain abandoned his own independent investigation and joined the ginger. They systematically searched through the cubicles, looking for any evidence of irregular business practices. They ended at the elevated workstation, discovering a strongbox behind the painting of Prussian king.

“That’s it!” Archibald threw his hands wide in a defeated posture. “We’re done for.”

“Give me a moment.” Tintin snatched a crystal glass from the decanter set displayed on an antique dresser. He put it on the door of the safe and spun the dial, eavesdropping on the turning of the cogs.

Captain held his breath.

“ _Et Voilà!_ ” with a smug smirk, Tintin opened the safe.

“ _Where did yer learn to break into a strongbox?_ ”

“I’ve interviewed a phantom thief once.”

Unable to answer immediately, Archibald looked at Milou. The copper canine tilted his head and puffed out a cloud of steam. “Why, _of course_ ,” concluded Captain.

Inside the safe were blank bills, government stamps and a set of accountant books, seemingly identical. Tintin leafed through both of them, Archibald looking over his shoulder. He laid the books on a desk, opening the same page for comparison.

“Tax evasion?” asked Captain.

“Seems so.” Tintin traced the columns of numbers with his finger. “Apparently, Müller’s producing and selling more than publicly acknowledged.” Tintin bit his lips in contemplation. “Milou, hide,” he decided.

“Lad!” Archibald attempted to stop him from confiscating the books. “They’ll notice those missing _for sure_.”

“I’m aware. But this is enough to warrant a legal search. Thompson and Thomson –”

“Who?”

“My Interpol contacts.” Tintin clicked the books shut in Milou’s safe. “They should be here by morning.” He hesitated. “Tomorrow at least. That’s not time enough to destroy all the evidence.”

Captain grudgingly agreed.

They continued their exploration, climbing the narrow servant’s staircase that spiralled to the upper floor. Prowling through crepuscular hallways of a sleeping castle reminded Archibald of his own childhood. It almost felt like he was teen again, sneaking out to enjoy the nightlife.

“So far so good, eh?” Tintin’s whisper interrupted his musings as the ginger unlocked another door.

“This goes way to well, if yer ask mae.” Even though Archibald was whispering as well, his voice acquired a sinister, rumbling echo in the empty hallway.

“Don’t be such a spoilsport, Captain. All that’s left now is to find the professor.”

“Well, lad, it’s not like we gonnae run into the man we need just ‘cause we need him. Life doesn’t work that way.” Saying this, Captain rounded the corner only to be promptly knocked off his feet by an inconspicuous man in his early forties clad in a green tweed suit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 4 ♫♪ Snips and snails and puppy dog’s tails, sugar and spice and everything nice, saltwater, rum and terrible pun! ♫♪ [return to text]


	15. Speaking of the Devil

#### 18th of July 1932, Malbork, Königreich Preußen

“Oh. Morning, gentlemen.” Cuthbert tipped his bowler hat and continued walking, as if this kind of encounter was completely normal.

Archibald clutched his nose, hissing in pain, unsure how exactly he ended up on the cold floor. Milou looked around in a confused attempt to determine the source of potential danger. Meanwhile, Tintin regained his composure, recognising the man from the _Whos’ Who_ he read while in Berlin. “ _Professor Calculus?_ ”

“This apparatus?” Cuthbert pulled a brass orb on a chain from his pocket. “That’s my hand-crafted brass pendulum.”

Captain stood back up, rubbing his throbbing nose. “Nay,” he grumbled with irritation, “he asked whether yer’ professor Calculus.”

“What’s its radius? I dare to say kilometre or more.”

The three men in the corridor stared at each other in dumbfound silence for a short while.

“Oh dear, where are my manners?” Cuthbert grabbed Archibald’s hand to shook it zealously. “Pardon me for not introducing myself.” He seized Tintin’s hand and repeated the vigorous shaking. “My name is Cuthbert Calculus.”

Captain turned to the ginger journalist. “ _Nothing could possibly go wrong?_ ”

“Oh, hush. The professor here seems just a little hard of hearing.”

“As deaf as a doorknob,” stated Archibald, strangely amused by this turn of events.

“Besides,” Tintin checked his wristwatch, “you said two and a half hours.” He smirked at the sailor mischievously. “You are _late_.”

“And yer a nitpicker.” Captain dramatically rolled his eyes, but the desired effect was undermined by his amused grin.

Meanwhile, Professor was visibly enthralled by the little automaton, cooing at Milou and scrutinizing him from every angle. Which caused the copper canine to wag his tail fiercely, puffing out crispy little clouds of steam in an assumption that Cuthbert wants to play with him.

“Fascinating as this might be,” Tintin turned to Calculus, diverting his attention from Milou, “I’m afraid we are in kind of a rush, Professor.”

“Oh.” Cuthbert scratched his goatee, deep in thoughts. “That throws a wrench in my plan,” he admitted.

Tintin shared a confused look with Archibald. The sailor shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, none the wiser. “Beg your pardon?” the ginger voiced his growing befuddlement.

From a purely logical point of view, Cuthbert knew that the young journalist could be trusted. After all, the young man’s reputation as an unyielding pursuer of justice was one of the main reasons Calculus sent his blueprints to him. But first and foremost, Cuthbert was a man of science, well aware that one should never blindly assume the outcome without a solid hypothesis and several carefully conducted tests.

And while time might have suddenly turned against his surreptitious plan of infinitesimal sabotages of the Crab, which would ultimately slow down the compilation process, a similarly thinking ally might be just the best component to deal with the beast of an automaton once and for all.

“They have a functional AST in here,” revealed Cuthbert, his voice and expression grave.

Archibald turned pale as fallen snow.

Tintin’s mind freeze.

As a device able to function independently within the framework of its programming, an automaton tank was _hypothesised_ to be an unrelenting killing machine.

“Such things are outlawed by The Treaty of Versailles!” the ginger cried out.

“And that’s only right!” The anger in Captain’s voice felt tangible, ice-cold and razor-edged. He turned to Cuthbert, curt movements and barked orders and just barely suppressed rage: “Can yer destroy that _monstrosity_?”

The chief-engineer of Tournesol Factory smiled, smug and confident. “Why do you think I’d be otherwise creeping around at this ungodly hour like a petty thief?”

Tintin folded his arms and tapped his fingers against his forearm. Such a delay would seriously derail their chances to escape unnoticed, and yet, he felt reluctant to leave his adversary with such a weapon in possession and time enough to abscond with it. “Well,” admitted the ginger reluctantly, “at least we have a moment of surprise since they have not yet noticed that Professor is missing, so…”

I believe it was already said that the Above has a rather twisted, one might be even inclined to say _downright sadistic_ , sense of humour. For, you see, amongst many proofs of the previous statement belongs the fact that when one thing happens to go wrong, others follow inevitably like toppling domino blocks.

The doors to the hallway opened and one of the night guards entered, yawning and rubbing the sleep away from his eyes, lured by the light. Upon seeing the mismatched group of strangers, he stopped short, wide awake in an instant. Before anyone could stop him, he shattered a glass casing and punched a brass button next to the door.

The alarm went off in an ear-splitting metallic sound that reverberated through the whole castle.

Archibald turned to Tintin. “Yer were saying…?”

For few disorienting seconds Spalding couldn’t comprehend what was happening, until logic muddled through his sleepy mind, providing him with the vital realisation that the grating sound that awoken him was the alarm.

He bolted out of his pleasantly warm bed, cursing the coldness of the castle. Wrapping himself up in a dressing gown that matched his silk pyjamas, he scrabbled around for his slippers. But before he left his room, he stopped by the mirror, stripping off the hairnet and preening his dandy wave.

He needed to ascertain what this mess of a situation was all about.

A possibility, equally improbable and terrifying at the same time, sneaked into his mind. Could it be… could it be the bloody scribbler, that Brussels’ troublewrecker, already hot on their heels?

Milou huffed. His rear legs strained with audible cogwheels whirling to propel him towards in a mad dash, paws thundering on the stone floor. He ran towards the guard, dead-locked on his target, his master hot on his heels. The copper canine hopped into the guard’s arms, unbalancing the poor man, so Tintin could easily knock him unconscious.

Captain whistled. “Nice uppercut.”

Tintin grinned at him. “I had a lot of opportunities to practise it.”

“I bet.” Archibald turned to the astonished professor: “Where to?”

Cuthbert blinked himself from his stupor, amazed beyond belief by the smoothness and quickness of the way Tintin dealt with the danger. “Former stables in the forecourt. This way.”

They trailed behind him, Milou bringing the read. Cuthbert stopped at a few intersections, consulting his inner map of the place. He led them outside of the main castle and across the second courtyard.

A group of several workers encountered them. Professor recognised some of the personnel and launched into a lengthy explanation, advising them to gather everyone they happen to run into on the first courtyard.

“I’m certain,” he explained to Tintin and Archibald when the workers left, “that most of the engineers from here have no idea about the shadowy business.”

Tintin nodded. He held no naive ideals about the chain of command. Stationed here in Malbork were just a few carefully selected people aware of the bare minimum of information relevant to their part. The real mastermind, the one who held all the cards in this game of deceit, waiting patiently for the results in the safety of some faraway hideout.

The forecourt was suspiciously silent, the ramparts loomed towards the sky brightening with the breaking dawn like mute guards of the secrets within the castle grounds.

“Herr Professor.” Spalding had been waiting for them in front of the gates of the Crab’s abode, wrapped in his silk dressing gown.

“Herr Spalding,” Calculus acknowledged the presence of his captor, stopping in a respectful distance.

Captain, already noticed by the secretary, stopped as well, beckoning Milou to hold the position. The gesture warned Tintin, who not yet rounded the corner of the workroom into Spalding’s field of view. Thinking quick on his feet, he abruptly changed his direction to run around the building. He can surprise the enemy from behind.

Spalding face was a carefully crafted mask of neutral expression. But then it broke into a cruel sneer. “Ich würde gerne Ihren Freunden vorgestellt werden, aber ich fürchte, ich wurde dazu gezwungen, hmm, sozusagen, initiieren den Test früher als erwartet.” [5]

Bone-deep humming reverberated through the air alongside the unmistakable sound of the boiler blowing the excess steam out. Then silence fell, unnatural and pregnant with expectation. That kind of silence which rise the fine hair at the back of the neck and sink dead-cold claws deep into the soul. Something could be heard, _could be felt_ moving behind the closed gates.

“ _Oh no,_ ” whispered Cuthbert. “ _You **didn’t** …_”

The building burst open as something from within opted for the easiest way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5I’d love to be introduced to your friends, but I’m afraid I have been compelled to, hmm, so to speak, initiate the test earlier than expected.[return to text]


	16. A Game of Tag

#### 18th of July 1932, Malbork, Königreich Preußen

A sole, angry-red searchlight pierced through the clouds of steam and red-brick dust. It narrowed down, an iris diaphragm constricted and dilated several times with mechanical whirling, aiming to focus. Another red light started to flicker a few metres sideways from the first lantern. But the glass was broken, fracturing the beam of the searching eye into myriads of spotlights.

Steel plates screeched, grinding against each other. A claw-like arm of hardened copper clasped around a pitiable part of still-standing wall and tore it down, crushing the bricks to fine dust.

The rumble of engines, regular like a heartbeat, the rhythmical puffing, not unlike laboured breath, forebode the initiation of its movement.

Arising from the debris, it resembled a creature straight from the fever-induced dream of a mad scientist, a prehistoric crab bristling with countless levers and brackets, gadgets and gears, bare cogwheels whirling in insane rhythm with the slightest of movement.

The tentative rays of the rising sun painted the polished copper of this nightmarish tool of destruction blood-red.

The red beam focused on Tintin, the diaphragm constricting.

“Oh no.” The ginger started to back away. “Oh no no no,” he whispered, chanting the denial like a mantra.

The Crab locked on its target.

The AST started to methodically clear the way from the ruins of the stables. The bulk of its framework resting on a caterpillar chassis was stuck, but an array of spider-like extremities, sharp at the edges, stabbed the ground in its vicinity and raised the tank, transferring the tracks onto more stable ground.

Tintin ran.

He ran like the very Death herself breathed on the back of his neck.

He ran across the forecourt and through the gates that lead to the outermost of the fortified castle grounds – a green zone for the employees to relax. An assembly of bicycles was lined against the wall of the gates, free to use for everyone who needed to get into the nearby village. Tintin grabbed one and mounted it in a single swift move. Within a couple of heartbeats, the ginger was pedalling for his life, dashing towards the last gates of the castle grounds.

The Crab clashed through the gateway from the third forecourt, leaving it in ruins. It emitted steam from both its funnels, an ominous threat, and hastened after its prey.

Milou strode around unconscious Archibald. He could not wake his favourite master’s friend by mere prodding and the unknown humans were drawing dangerously close – steelworks employees lured by the ruckus. The copper canine emitted a thick puff of steam, resolution firm.

Time to be drastic.

“ _ **OW!**_ ” Captain roused thanks to the insidious feat. “ _Ow!_ ” he complained to Milou, rubbing his backside.

Milou sat in front of him, puffing happily.

Captain attempted to sit up, dragging himself on all fours, but the movement stirred the soreness in him. Cursing underneath his breath he kneeled in the rubble, clutching his side.

“Sind sie verwundet, mein Herr?” Spalding held the kneeling man at gunpoint. “Erlaube mir, Sie aus sein Leiden zu befreien.”[6]

Archibald remembered with sudden clarity the third battle of Heligoland Bight, the nauseatic, frozen-in-time feeling of the moment just before the boilers exploded. He thought he was going to die, that fateful day 15 years ago. And in a way, he did. He considered himself to be a dead man walking, merely a scarred, empty shell carrying the rotting remnants of his soul around. A broken semblance of a human being struggling for every breath, drowning in memories.

He numbly looked at the gleaming tip of the gun, and thought: _This is it?_ Just when a fresh breeze, a ginger-haired wind of change, caught him and dragged him out of his desolation.

Milou leapt forward with threatening gear-grind, closing his muzzle around Spalding’s forearm. That single act of protection was a spell-breaker and Archibald followed the example of the copper canine, hurling himself at the secretary.

They landed in debris in a tumble of limbs. The sound of the scuffle and the gun going off drowned out the sickening crash of copper against bricks. Spalding fought like an eel, scratching and kicking, his knee connected hard with Archibald’s side. Captain groaned in pain, flakes of darkness dancing in front of his eyes.

Spalding scrambled back at his feet and with a triumphant smile aimed his gun at kneeling Captain, finger twitching on the trigger.

The logic was telling Tintin not to look back, but the adrenaline had an opposing opinion.

He glanced back, only to regret it in an instant. The Crab was catching up on him and there was no way, _absolutely no way_ , for his confiscated bicycle to be quicker than that monstrous mechanism.

But, _by Jove_ , he was not going to give up without a fight!

He swerved into the dense forest, pedalling the bicycle with all his might. The muscles on his legs ached as he zigzagged between trees, his breath deafening in his own ears.

Any distance was a good distance.

The sound of something unnatural entering this serene nature, the hideous snaps of trees being ripped from roots, too close to his liking. Tintin knew, he _knew_ without the need to look behind, that that monstrous machine would simply steamroller anything that would be unfortunate enough to stand in its way.

The Crab huffed, releasing thick clouds of steam that resonated through its funnels in deep, aggravated grumble. It tore out another tree with its crane arms and hurled the trunk at the escaping journalist. The powder-blue polo shirt a perfect substitution for a target, easy to discern in the dim morning light of the dusky forest.

Tintin clutched the handlebars tightly, so tightly that his knuckles turned white, eyes frantically searching for each and every possible route.

And then, the derailleur chain snapped.

A dull thud resonated loudly through the forecourt.

Spalding rotated from standing position down to the ground, face-first into the debris, gun unfired.

Captain looked from the unconscious form of the cunning secretary up to the lead pipe in Calculus’ hands. He snorted in amusement. “That ain’t exactly a scientific method of fixing a problem, innit?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” smiled Cuthbert and offered him a hand.

“Remind mae to never underestimate a scientist.” Archibald let himself be helped back to his feet.

Steelworks employees encircled them. Professor leaned on his lead pipe like on a walking stick and provided explanations to their befuddled inquiries.

Captain didn’t interrupt him, after all, it was Cuthbert who was acquainted with some of the steelworkers. He briefly contemplated standing in parade rest by Professor’s side, just in case, but he shuffled on his feet in an attempt to elevate the sharp, stabbing pain in his side and spotted inert Milou in the debris. “ _Oh no,_ ” he muttered, cradling the copper canine in his arms.

“Allow me.” Professor took Milou from his hands. “Severe malfunction due to impact.” He examined the automaton’s headpiece. “Hmm, main memory seems not to be damaged.” Cuthbert smiled at Captain reassuringly. “Do not worry. I can repair your dog.”

“No no no, he’s Tintin’s…” A chill crawled up Archibald’s spine as if the Death herself kissed him on the back of his neck. _Tintin_. He looked around in search of that unmistakable ginger quiff. Instead, he noticed the path of destruction leading out of the castle. “ _Blue blistering barnacles…_ Take care of here, would yer?”

“Are you going after that AST?” Cuthbert asked in disbelief.

Archibald shrugged his shoulders. “I cannae leave that laddie alone in it.”

“Nogat!”

“Look, I know it’s a mad idea, but I…”

“Not _mad_ , **Nogat**!”

“What?”

“Captain,” Cuthbert grabbed his shoulders, forcing the sailor to see him face to face. “Lure the Crab into the river. Automatons are sensitive to water.”

Captain nodded. “Right.” It was a mad, barely manageable sketch of a plan, but he had nothing to lose. “Interpol should arrive soon!” he shouted back at the engineer, running after the trouble-magnet of a journalist.

The clock tower mechanism rattled as the minute hand shifted its position and the carillon started its merry dance to announce 5 o’clock.

The sprocket fell off, the pieces of the chain entangled on the pedals and in the braking mechanism, rendering them useless.

Doing his best to manoeuvre the uncontrollable bicycle Tintin felt tangible despair descending on his fragile form trapped between the gruesome rumble of an automaton dead-set on his destruction behind and the dazzling reflections from the river surface ahead.

The Nogat River.

_Finally!_

Luring the AST directly into the river would be too straightforward to work, but a harrowing detour through a thick forest just might do the trick. Tintin hadn’t got a lot of time to think the details thoroughly, but supposing the monster behind was the same specimen as his dog, it would not react well to soaking in water.

The ginger journalist prayed to every saint he ever heard about. With all his might he steered the barely controllable bicycle towards the river, luring the Crab into what he hoped would prove to be an inescapable trap.

Swerving on the muddy riverbank, he listened with satisfaction as the caterpillar tracks drove the monstrous machine directly into the water. The enormous weight and movement speed propelling it further from the bank.

Then the back tyre skidded on the mud and Tintin fell back-first towards the water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 6Are you injured, my sir? Allow me to put You out of Your misery.[return to text]


	17. Safe and Sound

#### 18th of July 1932, Malbork, Königreich Preußen

Archibald hastened through the smithereens of the trees. He could feel his heart’s frenzied beating. He could feel his legs weakening, threatening to give up underneath him. He was out of shape, he _knew_ that, yet his body deemed necessary to remind him with every struggling step, with every gasping breath. But he kept going, fear for that boy driving him forward.

He tried to force the terrors of war out of his mind, tried to ignore the resurfaced memories of bodies mangled to barely recognizable pieces. Yet, he had seen too many friends die due to steam weapons. He does not want to see another.

Especially not Tintin. _Not Tintin!_

The line of uprooted trees ended on the river bank. That devilish device was bogged down in the shallow watercourse, its artificial arms moving abruptly in dying spasms.

But the ginger reporter was nowhere to be seen.

“TINTIN!”

Captain stumbled over a tree root that was ripped out from the ground. He staggered and cursed coarsely, but regained his equilibrium within a single heartbeat. Tripping and skidding all the way down to the muddy bank, he was flinging his hands in the air for better balance. It occurred to him that he must have looked like a crippled parrot, but he couldn’t care less.

“ _TINTIN!_ ” he wheezed, voice rasp. He bent forward, shaking hands crumpled in the fabric of his trousers, concentrating on forcing air into his burning lungs.

“Captain?” That desired voice came from the direction of the river.

Archibald attempted to move but his shaky legs finally gave up and he toppled down, panting heavily, hand clutched at his chest.

“CAPTAIN!” Tintin tried to climb back to solid ground, slipping and sliding on the mud. He fell, not for the first time concluding from the state of his clothes. “Captain! _Oh, crumbs!_ ” He slipped down again. Digging his fingers into the slimy mud he crawled up the incredibly slippery bank only due to his sheer stubbornness.

The ginger journalist grabbed the sprawled sailor by his shoulders, face pale with anxiety. “Is it infarct? Stroke? _Capitaine!_ ”

Archibald couldn’t help himself, he laughed loudly, crushing Tintin in a bear-hug, unheeding of the muddy dirt. “For _fuck’s sake_ , lad, yer alive!”

“So you say,” the ginger grinned cheekily. “But I’m fairly certain I’ve left my heartbeat at the castle.”

They looked into each other’s eyes and then burst out laughing.

Tintin rolled from the embrace and splatted onto his back on the muddy shore.

Fluffy white clouds lazily floated across the sky high above. The soft breeze was slowly returning their stolen breaths. The sloshing in the river subsided, the sizzling of the heated copper fading out into the tweeting of birds.

Captain felt the hesitant slowing of his frantically beating heart, the dryness of his throat, the pain in his side and the burning in the muscles of his legs.

He felt utterly wrung out.

He felt _alive_.

“This way.” Thompson pointed at the wreckage of the gateway with his cane.

“Oh, please, don’t be silly. The main office is surely this way. Your wretched sense of direction is what got us delayed in the first place.”

“ _My_ wretched sense of direction? _You’ve_ been reading the map all the time!”

Detectives glared at each other, then turned back to back with aggravated huffs. They stepped out, each of them into a different direction, unbeknown to the fact that the handles of their walking sticks interlocked. The canes stubbornly refused to let go of each other. Not sparing a glance behind, Thompson pulled exactly at the same time as Thomson pushed. They collided back together, surprise etched on their faces.

Cuthbert swallowed a laugh. He had been observing the hustle and bustle on the forecourt, cradling the dysfunctional automaton.

The ICPC representatives indeed arrived right on cue, supported by a cavalry of local policemen. Now they were scouring through the ruins of the workroom, questioning the confused steelworkers.

Wasn’t it fascinating how it all worked out in the end? Cuthbert didn’t dare to dream about such a satisfying outcome when he had to flee his safe haven, trying to escape the intricate net of barely noticeable machinations ensnarling around his person. He still had been a little hesitant to entrust the entirety of his work into the hands of such a young man, one he never met in person no less, but it turned out to be the best thing he could have done.

“Professor Cuthbert Calculus?” he heard two voices speaking as one.

“This apparatus?” Professor turned to face the infamous detective duo, cradling the inanimate automaton. “I have been entrusted to keep an eye on him.”

“Is that Milou?” they asked in unison.

“Yes, I believe that is indeed his name.”

Detectives looked at each other, baffled.

“Why is he with you?” asked Thompson.

“Why is he switched off?” asked Thomson.

“Well…” Cuthbert hesitated. The story in its entirety would take too much time to explain. Time he could devote to constructing the instruments necessary for stalling the Crab had the young boy and his sailor friend failed.

On the other hand, he would need every possible support from the official institutions worldwide, if such sad eventuality proved to be the horrid truth.

But it seemed that his lucky star deemed him worthy, as he espied the ginger quiff of hair. He merely smiled and pointed towards the ruins of the castle gates through which Tintin and Archibald walked back. They were covered in a crust of dirt, looking like they just raced for their life through a battlefield, the sailor leaning heavily on the reporter.

He was far too close for detectives liking.

No one is allowed to menace their boy on their watch.

“Tintin!” The detective duo enthusiastically waved their canes in air, nearly knocking out a passing worker. Professor strategically side-stepped out of their reach.

They all met halfway, in the middle of the forecourt, amidst the ruins.

“Great Scotland Yard! Dear boy,” “are you all right? We were” “sick worried about you! Couldn’t you” “wait till we arrived?”

But Tintin didn’t pay any attention to them. He rushed towards Cuthbert, eyes glued on the immobile copper canine. “Milou, _oh, Milou_. What happened?”

“There is nothing to worry.” Calculus smiled at the ginger and patted Milou’s head lovingly. “His memory is intact. Once I repair him, he will be even better than from the assembly line.”

“Tintin?” Thompson and Thomson encircled the ginger. “Tintin, what happened?”

“What happened?!” Archibald roared, not sure from where he got the energy for such an outburst. “He played a game of tag with a stampede AST!”

“AST? You surely couldn’t mean” “automaton steam-tank! Such are prohibited” “by more than 20 international laws.”

“27 to be precise,” corrected Tintin matter of factly. Due to his numerous travels with Milou, he studied every law dealing with automatons exhaustively.

“And the Crab?” asked Professor, his whole demeanour suddenly serious.

“That antediluvian crustacean got jammed in the river,” Captain answered with tired satisfaction.

“Good. That’s good,” concluded Cuthbert.

He couldn’t help but be a little wistful for the state-of-the-art intricate mechanism, now lost in a shallow, watery grave. But, he persuaded himself, this outcome was for the best.

* * *

#### 18th of July 1932, The Coal-Black Island, Scotland

Bad news travels fast.

“ _Diavolo._ ”

He breathed out the curse, rolling it on his tongue like a sip of archive cognac. He put the expensive cigar out in the crystal ashtray, smoke still enshrouding him like a halo, like a mystery he remained to the world. He tapped his fingers in displeasure on the mahogany desk, light catching on the massive gold signet ring.

The Crab might have been a failure, but Roberto Rastapopoulos never have only one card in the game.


	18. Prussian Typewriter

#### 18th of July 1932, Malbork, Königreich Preußen

The scald sprawled across his left side, extending its reins to his back and chest. The same reddish parody of once healthy skin as the burn mark on his left forearm, a burn mark that would fit perfectly over the solitary island of unblemished skin on his chest. Dozen pale scars ran across it, their ragged lines jutting out. The tattoo of the crest of arms adorned his left biceps, the ink still dark as tar, the lines still as sharp as the day it was made.

Archibald frowned at those keepsakes of the War. He hid them beneath the thin layer of borrowed clothing, a boiler suit of hideous, too bright colour.

He wondered whether Karaboudjan already berthed. He wondered whether he would see his ship again. He wondered whether he would ever set sail again. He might not be directly involved in the smuggling, but his reputation… well, there was not much left of it anyway.

The future looked bleak once again.

The persistent background noise of clicking of keys was unexpectedly interrupted by a muffled voice, no doubt a curse.

Archibald returned to the room Tintin retired to with a confiscated typewriter. “Problem?” he asked, leaning tiredly on the doorframe.

“Prussian typewriter,” the reporter said, gesturing at the machine in question.

“Huh? I heard they’re pretty good.”

“They are.” The ginger crumpled a paper in his fist and tossed it on the floor. A whole battalion of similar paper balls littered the proximity of a garbage basket. Normally, Milou would have dealt with them. But the copper canine now lay tucked out of harm’s reach, waiting to be repaired. It felt like missing a limb, Milou was a constant in his life. “The best, actually.” Tintin loaded another paper into the typewriter. “Alas, they tend to have a _German keyboard layout_ ,” muttered the journalist darkly, making it sound like the worst insult.

Captain laughed.

“It is not a laughing matter!” Tintin protested. “I could hardly submit a reportage full of ß instead of question marks! I have a deadline to keep, you know.”

“Like yer editor will kill yer for a tad of tardiness.”

“Oh, this time he _might_ …” Tintin pouted at the typewriter.

Hergé would certainly not be amused.

Captain chuckled and crossed the distance between them just to ruffle Tintin’s hair, well aware of how irritating the boy found this. “Dinnae overdo yerself,” he smiled fondly at the boy and left the room.

The journalist sighed and rubbed his stiff neck. Not yet noon and he could already feel the beginning of what could turn out to be a splitting headache. Well, a little break might be nice.

He could assist professor Calculus who had seized the workrooms, persuading employees to help him destroy each and every piece of machinery, blueprints and schemes connected with the Crab.

Or he could help Thomson and Thompson looking for further evidence. Spalding and his underlings had been taken into custody and Müller Stahlwerk will be penalized heavily for not keeping The Treaty of Versailles, but still…

Still it felt like there was something missing, some loose end that went overlooked, some piece of the puzzle that would reveal the entirety of the picture.

Tintin glared at the empty paper that taunted him with his pristine whiteness.

Knowing that he simply won’t be able to write anything of value right now, he decided that a short break is indeed in order.

“Captain?” he called out, trailing after his companion into the conjoined room serving as a lounge.

“Hnn?” Archibald held a pipe between his teeth, fishing his pockets for a box of matches.

The ginger snickered, took the desired item from the coffee-table and rattled with the box. “Might you be searching for _this_?”

“Hmm, aye,” Archibald hummed. “Be so kind?”

Tintin shrugged his shoulders but obliged nevertheless. “You know smoking isn’t good for your health, right?”

“I’ve heard,” Captain lit up his pipe from the match and puffed contentedly. “But I cannae give up all mae vices at once.”

Tintin blew the match out and toppled onto the sofa. He wiggled a little, searching for a comfortable position. With a weary sigh, he dug a cushion out from underneath his back and tossed it aside.

Captain observed it with amusement. “All settled then?” he sat down by the ginger’s feet. The sofa creaked underneath all the weight.

“Just for a while, I still have a reportage to write,” complained Tintin. “ _Or_ ,” he contemplated, “I might run away in chase of yet another adventure!” He punched the air to emphasise his words. Just for show.

Archibald laughed. “Lad, d’yer wannae push the daisies before yer turn thirty?”

“Of course not.” Tintin smiled mischievously. “I always thought that I manage to do it before I’ll be twenty.”

“Yer cheeky rascal.” Archibald huffed. “Yer cannae be real.”

“Oh, I pretty much am, for the endless chagrin of criminals worldwide.” Tintin tilted his head to better see at his companion. “What are you planning to do?”

“Nay an inkling,” he admitted, feeling tired to the bottom of his very soul.

“Ever been in Brussels?” Tintin asked, full of feigned nonchalance, observing the absence of dirt beneath his recently scrubbed fingernails.

“Port only. Why d’yer ask?”

“Weelll…” Tintin stretched himself along with the syllable, “I happen to have an unoccupied couch in my flat.”

“Yer sure?” Archibald observed him intently. “I’ve been informed, that I rattle the windowpanes with mae snoring.”

“Oh, I can testify to _that_ ,” Tintin chuckled. “Honestly, you could use a friend to stay with before the trial with your former crew starts. Besides, you still owe me that exclusive interview.”

Captain laughed. “Guilty as charged. So, Brussels, eh?” He scratched his beard. It was as good place as any.

And he wouldn’t be all alone in there.

Archibald smirked. “Lad, between mae clumsiness and yer troubling tendencies, our train to Brussels will end up kidnapped or worse.”

“Hmm,” Tintin pondered on the eventuality. “That…” he concluded with a cheeky grin, “ _would make an awesome reportage_.”

Archibald Haddock, retired officer of The Royal Army of The United Kingdom of Great Britain, Ireland and eastern coasts of Europe, decided he deserves better than this, that he has right for some peace and quiet after all he underwent lately. So he whacked a certain intrepid reporter on his ginger head with a cushion.

Needless to say, it did little to muffle the lad’s laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAAAY!  
> I f*cking finally finished this frigging fanfiction!  
> Freedom! ... relatively speaking.
> 
> Hearty thanks to all who supported me along the way and endured my ramblings and musings and plotting, both IRL and on-line. I've started this in April 2018, hoping I'll finish it the very same year. Welp. Almost 3 years later, I can finally declare _The Crab with the Mechanical Claws_ finished.
> 
> Few issues remained unsolved by now (namely the Karaboudjan affair) and I plan to settle them in the follow up story. Which, hopefully, I _might_ start posting at the end of this (2021) year. We shall see. 
> 
> But for now, I'd like to focus on several of my other writing projects.
> 
> Let's meet on those steam-filled streets once again in due time.


End file.
